Harry Potter and the Supernatural Phenomenon
by kamikumai
Summary: Harry Potter meets Supernatural, or more precisely, it's Dean Winchester who meets Harry Potter, who means more to Dean than Harry could imagine. Eventual Slash, warning: mentioned Wincest.
1. Prologue & Chapter I

**Word from the Author:** It's been a long time since I've written and actually presented something for the wider reading community, so all I can say is that I hope you guys enjoy this, whoever you are. I'd love to hear comments, feedback, you name, I want it. That said, I'd like to acknowledge the fact that this will probably a long fic in the making but that I really would like to see it through to the end, responses permitting.

**Warning:** As the summary says, there's mention of Sam/Dean made by Dean himself, but the content lying therein is of a more emotional nature than a physical one. I add here my disclaimer regarding the fact that I am in no way making money as a result of this purely intellectual venture, from either those who hold the rights to all things Supernatural or the esteemed J.K.Rowling. So, without further ado, I present to you, beloved readers, my Harry Potter-Supernatural crossover: (Note: I'm posting this in the Supernatural category as it begins for the most part with perspectives from SPN characters, not to mention the fact that I somehow find it more likely that people who watch SPN will be familiar with HP, rather than vice versa. Anyhow, here we go!)

**Harry Potter**

**and the**

**Supernatural Phenomenon**

Ж

**Prologue**

Ж

It seemed to Dean as if this hunt would never end. Even now that everything he had ever lived for was gone. First Mum, but that was practically bygones, though none of her boys, Dad included, would have ever let them be such. Dad was the second to fall, sacrificed to keep Dean alive, and by extension Sammy. _That's Sam._

Dean had thought that when he saw the light of life bleeding out of Sammy's beautiful brown eyes that he would simply die with him.

Alas, such a fate simply could not be. Dean had work to do.

And a goddamned evil son of a bitch to destroy.

Ж

**Chapter 1**

_**One Week Later**_

Ж

Dean's first stop, after salting and burning Sammy's body, and then spreading his ashes, was Ellen's place. He needed Ash to tell him what was what with current demonic movements. To Dean's frustration, there was nothing. No signs of an apocalypse coming. Nothing. It was as if this war that everyone had been going on about had simply fallen through.

Jo was the one who had _kindly_ offered to dress his wounds. Surprisingly, he hadn't had that many on him. Most of them had just grazed the surface. Although a gash on his forehead had bled profusely, leaving him caked in a layer of blood. If only all blood washed off as easily as this did.

As the young wanna-be hunter cleaned and sterilized his injuries, Dean felt numb. Almost adrift from the world at large. There really wasn't anything here to ground him anymore, and the only pain he was suffering from had been internalized, buried beneath a grim expression and hardened eyes. He knew he'd have to leave soon, but how soon was simply a matter of deciding what his next move should be. After all, it had been some time since last he'd had to make a decision based solely on his own input. What's more, Dean wasn't sure how long he could stand to be around people who still had _connections_ to this world, people to call their own. _Family_.

He'd finally had enough when Jo had put her hand on his arm, and looked at him with her heart in her eyes. He couldn't deal with the contact. Or the pity.

Dean was alone now, and he intended to stay that way. He didn't want anything tying him down, or holding him back, and he knew that that was exactly what Jo wanted to do. She may have been pretty, she may have been soft, and she may have been sweet but what Dean really wanted was hot, hard and bitter. Only, it was gone, and he had to keep on moving. Cos what he was most scared of right now, wasn't something putting him away too. It was the possibility that his anger might fade or mellow. That he wouldn't be able to hold on to his resolve, on to his rage. That he wouldn't be able to get the job done. To finally get his revenge.

And there was no way in hell that he could let that happen. He just had to keep on moving.

With barely a word said edgewise, Dean packed his stuff into the Impala, as soon as he was able, apathetic to the pleadings of both Jo and her mother to stay and rest and heal.

As if any of that would help him find and smite that bastard.

As he stiffly sat behind the wheel, and slammed close the door, Jo begged him to at least tell them where he was going, saying that they'd feel better if they knew.

As if Dean cared how they felt.

Still, something compelled him to answer. So he left them with one word, "_Missouri_." He knew how they'd interpret that, and for some reason he felt a certain sliver of satisfaction at the mistruth he'd just fed them. He wasn't sure what to make of the feeling.

Ж

The drive wasn't particularly long, or at least, it hadn't seemed to be. Neither had it been particularly eventful, besides nightmares of Sam dying, over and over and over behind his closed eyes.

It didn't help that when he opened them, he saw exactly the same thing.

He couldn't escape from this reality.

_"If you can't save him, you have to kill him…"_ How wrong Dad had been. Well, wrong in the context Dad had believed he was conveying. Dean however now saw greater depths to those words, or perhaps they'd become more shallow. _You can't save him, you killed him_.More than anything the words now sounded like an admonishment. And all he heard in them was disappointment. When he didn't hear scorn, that is.

In the months that had followed Dad's death, he and Sammy had managed to find more and more of the 'special kids'. Each of them showed strong manifestations of the human psyche in the form of various abilities. Telekinesis, prophetic visions, mind control, and telepathy being the most common. One of the more unusual had been the ability to electrocute things, fry them, from the inside out…

All these 'special kids' were meant to be a part of an army, humans battling on the side of demons, only there seemed to be fair few as far as numbers go. A handful of them at most. And not all of them experienced the same phenomena; their mothers pinned to the ceiling and burned alive.

As time went by, however, Sammy proved to show more and more variation in his abilities. Most of the others only had one aspect of power to control, whereas Sammy's mental strength and range of capabilities seemed to grow and extend, boundlessly, far more so than any of the others'.

Between the two of them, they figured that those who were strongest were the ones whose mothers had been attacked. Rather than this being what made them stronger, Dean believed it was the exact opposite.

The Demon had known that these children would turn out to be strongest, and thus, in order to prevent any usurpation in the coming war, the Demon had cast bindings forged in the blood of the birther, such that as the child's strength grew, so did the Demon's.

Turns out Sammy had been strongest of all, and that the bond had dipped deep into the dark and desolate depths of the Demon's very existence.

Bet the fucker hadn't expected Sammy to die as easily as he had; protecting his big brother's life with his own. His body, his shield.

It was the sight of his brother's constantly strong and steady form suddenly crumpling, the heavy feel of his suddenly lifeless limbs as Dean's arms encircled him possessively that left him gasping and crying out as the hold of sleep abandoned him. Dean wasn't sure which was worse, having to relive that moment when dreaming, or having to continue living, aware that it wasn't just some nightmare that would disappear with the fading darkness of the night.

What happened after… That still haunted Dean too. But not quite in the same way, because it was only when Dean was awake that he knew what happened next.

After the connection had been severed the Demon had screamed, and screamed, and screamed before a final unholy shriek found it in its non-corporeal creepy-ass black-mist state of being. It had even had the nerve to try and possess Dean.

That would be what cinched it though; it had been _incapable_ of entering him. The sensation of its malignant presence trying to force its way into his body had sent a cold chill down Dean's spine.

Almost instantly, however, upon having realized the futility of its pathetic attempts at possession, the black cloud engulfed itself in flames. The space around the burning ball seemed to distort fractionally before the fabric of existence seemed to be rent apart leaving a gaping black wound in reality. The black hole embraced the emblazing blob of evil, and as suddenly as it had appeared, the hole, and its contents, all but vanished before Dean's eyes, the universe righting itself momentarily.

Dean had fallen to his knees, as his breath caught in his throat. The beginnings of a sob tore its way out from the depths of his soul as he clutched the remnants of a shattered family, a shattered life and a shattered heart as close to his being as he could. As he clutched his beloved baby brother to him and howled in fury.

He thought to himself that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't hurt nearly so much, had he been able to say _in words_, just once, how much he loved his Sammy.

But the body in his arms had grown cold, just like the tears on his cheeks, even as what was left of his heart burned for revenge more passionately than ever before.

Ж

Neither he nor Sam had returned to Lawrence since helping Jenny with the problems their old home had been giving her. He gave the house a wide berth. There were just too many memories, too fresh for him to deal with, and he knew that if he saw it, he would probably break. Instead, he by-passed the area entirely, driving along streets that had long changed since his childhood, enough that they didn't stir anything in his thoughts, or in his heart. For the most part, they just looked like the streets of any old American city might, and for that he was unbearably grateful.

He arrived at Missouri's just before nightfall. Parking outside, he felt hesitant in approaching her house. For one, he wasn't exactly sure what he had come here looking for. And for another, he wasn't sure he'd like what she'd have to say to him. Particularly about Sammy.

Berating himself mentally, he forced himself to get out of his car and move toward the same old house she'd been in since last he was here. It really hadn't changed much since then. Dean took note, surveying the place as he crossed the street, that the gardens seemed to be just a little more overgrown with weeds and other native foliage than they had been previously. He walked, a little unsteadily, up the garden path, and onto her porch.

Trembling, he knocked on the door.

Ж

Missouri Mosley wasn't getting any younger. Her days of being an active Hunter were long gone. Still, she knew all the regular haunts, and never lost touch with her contacts, human and otherwise. She didn't have to be psychic to know she'd soon be getting a visit from the last living member of the Winchester clan.

With the ease and agility of someone half her age, she danced about her kitchen, methodically tasting and adjusting the flavour of her wares. Nowadays, cooking was about the only physical endeavour she chose to partake in, and she found it to be no less meaningful than her time spent hunting things, saving people. Instead, she took food to the homeless, and those too poor to feed themselves adequately. She also cooked up balms, and healing salves, various potent mixtures that could ward of evil, or be used to banish the unholy. Just because she wasn't out in the field, didn't mean she'd stopped doing what she'd lived for. She was still a psychic, and that meant that no matter where she went, or how far she ran, the field would always come to find her. And so, she made sure as hell, she was always prepared.

Even as she stirred the chicken broth that was being heated on a slow flame, she recalled the first time she'd met John Winchester, almost 24 years ago now, just after the death of his wife, Mary. He'd come for a reading, but she'd known, from the moment she set eyes on him, that he was different from all the others that normally came to her. This one, he hadn't come looking for good news. Oh no, he had wanted the cold, hard truth. And she'd given it to him.

Like she'd told his boys, all she'd done was drawn back the curtains for him. It was he who had chosen to jump head-first through that window, and never look back.

Missouri hasn't been a palm-reader all these years not to know a little about human nature, beyond what she was able to pluck from people's minds and the movement of their energies. A person's body, in and of itself, is often enough to tell those who know how to look a lot more than most would want to give away. And she'd been able to read John Winchester loud and clear; nothing would stop him in this. Nothing.

She imagined that his sons were not too unlike him in that respect. After all, they'd grown up with him, with next to no contact that could show them the softer aspects of the human existence. Another cold, hard truth: those boys, they'd been raised for the hunt.

Missouri sometimes wondered what life would be like had she never had her powers. However, she never pondered this line of thought for long, as she knew there was nothing she could do to change the reality that she possessed abilities above and beyond most other humans. In fact, she took pride in what she could do to help.

And she knew that the young man anxiously standing on her porch, waiting for her to open the door for him, would need all the help he could get, not to mention all the help she could give.

Ж

To Be Continued...


	2. Chapter II

**Word from the Author:** I just want to say thank you to the kind souls who reviewed, even just to tell me to update! As an author, it's definitely the some of the best motivation I could hope for to know that people are actually reading this! It's also because of this that this chapter is out far earlier than I had originally intended. I hope you all enjoy this, and continue to stick with me.

**Disclaimer:** As it stands in chapter 1.

**Chapter 2**

Ж

Dean stood taut a few moments, anxiously waiting for the door he'd knocked on to open. When his patience was met with stillness and silence, he started pounding his fist upon the pane glass that furnished its centre. Just as he was about to up the ante some more, the door swung open, revealing a disgruntled Missouri, in a gaudy pink and green apron.

"Hold your horses, boy, I ain't getting any younger, you know!" Dean couldn't help but think she didn't look any older either. "Go on, get in, and take a seat. I'll only be a minute or two."

So Dean strolled into the lounge room, dropped down onto a sofa, and gallantly resisted the urge to put his feet up on Missouri's coffee table. Missouri returned with a cup of something steamy in one hand and an assortment of biscuits on a plate in the other. She smiled approvingly at Dean's feet, both firmly attached to the carpeted floor, before handing over what smelt to be coffee and gesturing for him to help himself to the biscuits. She took the seat across from him, and squirmed in it a little to get comfortable.

Dean sipped at his coffee quietly, trying not to be too obnoxious in his desperate quest for caffeine. Missouri just watched him intently, as if contemplating something deep and meaningful.

It was a good 10 minutes, filled with a couple of refills of coffee, before Missouri finally broke the slightly tense silence that weighed between them.

"I know I should have all the answers," she began, "but I don't."

Dean had expected as much, but he was sure there was something more she could tell him; something more than he already knew, which admittedly wasn't a lot at present. There had to be.

She cleared her throat, and Dean sat up a little straighter in the somewhat saggy sofa as she continued in that lilting accent of hers, "Only, this time, I think I have enough to get you where you need to go."

Dean looked into her eyes, and saw nothing beyond his own reflection there. In a serious tone that was very rarely used he asked quietly, "And where do I need to go?"

Missouri opened her mouth, before closing it sharply. She grunted as she hauled herself out of her chair. "You'll find out soon enough, boy. Now shut up, stand up and follow me. We should get something proper into your belly before we try and put anything into that hard head of yours," she snarked at him, whilst pulling a chair out from under the kitchen table for him to sit on.

He knew better than to argue, he'd seen the kind of moods she could get in, not to mention the moods Dad had elaborated on the last time they'd met up. Dean wondered to himself why Dad hadn't used Missouri as a main character for scary bed-times stories designed to make naughty boys behave. He knew stories of the boogey-man and other such things that went bump in the night hadn't worked on them. After all, they had both seen too much and known too much about the dark to be truly frightened into submission like 'normal' children. What's more, Dad had needed them to be able to fight these kinds of things, not quiver at the mere mention of them.

Dean was brought out of his thoughts when a bowl of hot chicken broth was placed in front of him, filled nearly to overflowing. He raised both eyebrows at the sight of a plate of buttered bread stacked higher than the coffee cup sitting at his elbow. He wondered if Missouri was in fact a wicked witch that ate not-so-little-no-longer-children, and was trying to fatten him up.

Seeing the expression of his face, and no doubt hearing his train of thought, Missouri scowled at him, "Why don't you shut that pretty little head of yours up, and eat your supper, before it gets cold." She plonked herself down across from him, and said a small prayer of thanksgiving for the meal.

They resumed their silence, the little dining room filled with only the sounds of cutlery and consumption, while Dean wondered how long he'd have to endure before some answers would be forthcoming.

Ж

As it would turn out, Dean had only to wait through dinner, dessert and a nightcap, before he was shepherded back to the lounge room, and neatly shoved into the seat he'd taken when he'd first arrived.

Another lengthy silence had ensued, before Dean deliberately contemplated putting his feet on Missouri's coffee table, to get her attention.

She mocked glared at him, knowing exactly what he was trying to do. She then sighed deeply, and spoke.

"I don't know if you remember this. But I told you once that people don't come here for the truth. They come here for good news." She paused here, as if for emphasis. "Now, I think I know which one you want. But you're gonna have to say it, and mean it, before I can help you."

Dean was momentarily bewildered by her words. He almost felt like shouting at her, _of course he wanted the truth!_ But he realized then, the position she must often be put in. People would undoubtedly come to her, claiming they wanted the truth, only to turn around and blame the one who gave it to them, because the truth was, it wasn't the truth that they had really wanted. What they had really wanted was for kind and consoling words _to be the truth_. In other words, they'd really only wanted good news masquerading itself as a truth they could handle. Sugar-coating. Dean understood it well though, that more often than not the truth hurt, in one way or another. And that it had as much potential to destroy you, as to lift you up.

Dean looked up from where his gaze had fallen to a stain on the carpet, and found Missouri smiling at him gently. He breathed deeply, and exhaled loudly, and said with as much conviction as he could muster, "I not only want the truth. I _need_ the truth." And just like that, he felt calmer, more at peace within himself than he had since…

Missouri broke in before he was able to finish that thought, "The last time you were here, your father probably didn't tell you this, but he came after you called."

Dean jerked his head back in surprise, "He did what?"

Missouri nodded pensively, "You called, and he came. That's what fathers are for. He stayed only long enough to make sure you boys were safe, and that the thing at your old home wasn't what killed your mother."

"But, why didn't he talk to us, or even let us know he was nearby, or something!"

Missouri smirked a little at that, "You know, I asked almost exactly the same thing. I asked him, '_John Winchester, why don't you go talk to your children?_' And do you know what he said? He said to me, '_I don't want to. You have no idea how much I wanna see them. But I can't. Not yet. Not until I know the truth._'"

"And the truth?"

"Well, he came to see you, boy, didn't he? But the truth of the matter is there's still a lot of truth out there. Like I said, I know enough to get you where you need to go. The only thing is, once you go, there ain't no coming back, just so you know."

Dean just looked her in the eye and said softly, sadly, "Good thing there isn't anything here for me to come back to."

She returned his look, matching his sadness and solemnity, "And just maybe you might find something there to stay for."

Dean barked out a laugh, "You sound more like a match-maker than a palm-reader."

"Don't you know I can do both?" She replied dryly.

Dean smiled, just a little, but given how he'd been feeling the last week or so, it actually felt like quite a lot.

Ж

Dean woke up and found himself on the floor, rather than on the couch, where he could have sworn he'd started off. Something smelt good, and Dean reckoned that was likely what had woken him.

What felt strangest though was the fact that he'd slept for more than 3 hours at the one time. He almost felt rested.

Scratching his head, he padded into the kitchen to find pancakes pilled high on a plate that literally had his name on it, spelt out in thick syrupy goodness. He supposed that visiting Missouri actually had some perks other than information to continue his mission. Food and sleep, two things that Dean loved with a passion. _If only Sammy were here, then he'd have all he ever needed_. He quickly stifled the thought, as well as a contented yawn that tried to escape him.

He knew he'd probably need this large breakfast. Before being ushered off to bed, Missouri had promised him that all his questions would be answered tomorrow. That now was the time for rest and preparation, and that tomorrow would come soon enough.

It had. But still, do tomorrows ever come soon enough?

Dean shoveled in his pancakes, and practically inhaled two cups of black-gold, before sitting back contentedly, and patting his happily full belly.

"Well, ain't you a little piggy?"

Dean half-heartedly flashed Missouri his tilted grin, "I'm a growing man."

"And soon enough you'll be growing sideways. But maybe that'll make your head seem a little smaller in comparison. Though, in all seriousness, I doubt it."

Dean made a show of ignoring her comment, closing his eyes and savouring the taste of sugary golden syrup and coffee that sat lightly on his tongue.

"Don't you go falling asleep, boy, today, the real work begins."

Dean's eyes were open in a flash, his gaze swiveling instantaneously to meet Missouri's, as she finished piling the dishes up in the sink. "What do we need to do?"

Missouri smiled, "For starters, you can go have a shower. You stink. I should have made you take one last night, before I let you sleep on my couch…"

"It's not like I was on it for long anyway," Dean grumbled weakly as he stood and tried to stretch some of the fullness out of him.

"While you're doing that, I'll get what I need together so I can start filling you in." Missouri smiled sweetly, "Oh, and Dean…?" Dean paused in his rummaging for something that didn't smell to shoot Missouri an enquiring look. "Don't you dare jerk off in my shower."

Dean shifted a little uncomfortably, before hastily grabbing his cleanest clothes and a small bag of toiletries and making his way upstairs to where he remembered the bathroom was from his 'tour of Missouri Mansion'.

"And don't think I won't know if you do," Missouri called after him, laughing.

Ж

Standing under a cold spray wasn't his ideal way to start the morning. Admittedly, today had been better than most of its predecessors, so he couldn't really complain. He knew Missouri had simply been trying to get a, pardon the pun, rise out of him, but he wasn't sure he wanted to be touching himself when there was a) somebody psychic in the house (let's face it, who knew from how far Missouri could read you) and b) someone he considered to be an Aunt or something similar who was putting him up for the time being. _Neither of those things stopped you when it was Sammy_, his traitorous mind whispered to him.

But Sammy didn't count. Or rather, he was the only one who did, and to Dean's mind that gave him certain privileges. _Such as getting to listen to you jack off?_

He shook his head to get any stray thoughts out of it, only to find himself thinking about other things he didn't want to remember. Like how bereft he'd felt when Sam had left him to go off to college. To live a 'normal' life. His resentment only ever lasted as long as he could hold off the desperate feeling of abandonment that the thought of Sammy not being there brought him. He knew his baby brother probably never even considered that Dean might have felt that way. Dean was always strong, always silent. Always a strong advocate of the dogma that there was no need to be over the top with letting every Tom, Dick and Harry know your every thought and _feeling_.

He only wished sometimes that he had been better with words. Even though his brother had known he'd loved him through his actions, Dean also recognized the fact that what Sammy had often wanted was words, words that just as often Dean hadn't known how to give.

When Sammy had been at Stanford, Dean had made sure he was there every weekend, reassuring himself that his little brother was alright. Even without Dean being there every waking moment and then some, to protect him from the dark. To protect him like he had promised he would. He remembered to this day the vow he'd made to himself the day after the Shtriga had almost taken Sammy's life all those years ago. _I solemnly swear that I will protect my brother with all that I am, and all that I have, and never will I fail him, so help me God._

But apparently, there were just some things that even he couldn't protect his brother from. One of those things had been falling in love. Dean hadn't been able to protect his brother from that hardship. In normal society, Dean knew that people would say that loving and losing was a part of life. But it shouldn't have been a part of theirs. Dean knew it was selfish, but after Cassie, the only thing he'd thought about was Sammy. Protecting Sammy. Anything Sammy wants, or needs, Dean would give to him. No matter what.

In fact, if he were truthful with himself, his obsession with his brother had started long before that. Before he'd known what hormones were and the crazy things they could make you do. All he'd known was that his baby brother was his everything and that they'd be together always. At the time he hadn't realized what kind of context that could be taken in and even as he'd started to mature and learn about sex and relationships, underneath it all, all he thought about was _Sammy_.

Not that he'd ever _done_ anything about these feelings he'd had. After all, it was Dean himself who knew best how much it meant to Sam to at least try to be normal, and Dean was pretty certain that what he may or may not have, once in a while, contemplated doing to his baby brother did not fall within the realm of 'being normal'.

Dean often wondered whether _he_ was the reason why all of those people were forever coming to the conclusion that the two of them were _lovers_. He wondered whether these people noticed how he stood closer than required whenever he could, that his gaze would linger longer than was appropriate, more often than not. The only thing was Dean sometimes felt that he wasn't the sole instigator of such practices. Sammy himself had always watched him closely. Dean had often felt Sammy's eyes burning into him when he was facing the other way, or casually flirting with some nameless, and soon after faceless, 'babe'. Dean just shrugged it off as being a part of Sammy's intense personality. The way he would hoard anything he loved, and the fact that he hated to share, the exception, of course, being with Dean, came to Dean's mind. Sam had also loathed having to share Dean, particularly with Dad. In his memories, such incidents always brought him a feeling of amusement. Today, however, he found them to be tinged with melancholy.

He thought again of their separation, of Sammy's time spent at Stanford. Where had Sam's unwillingness to share Dean fled to then? Dean had thought he'd known heartbreak.

But what he'd felt then couldn't even begin to compare to what he was feeling right now.

At least back then, he'd been able to stop by and check up on Sam, to make sure that he was ok, that he was happy. _He would be happier with you_, Dean used to think to himself. But now, with the clear eyes of hindsight, he wasn't so sure. Dean couldn't help but think that maybe Sammy might have _lived_ had he stayed with _them_.

Rationally, Dean knew he shouldn't blame himself. But really, where did rationale come into it when the most important person in Dean's entire world just wasn't there anymore? When that most precious person wasn't there at all and never would be ever again.

Dean turned off the cold and flicked the hot tap on hard. The sudden change from cold to hot made him gasp, and flinch. It reminded him of the cold dread that had eaten at him from the moment Sam had broken, and then the sudden rush of burning hot anger, no, _anguish_, that had followed. For all his worth, Dean couldn't figure out when the tears had started. But as they tried to run down his face, they burned away just as soon as they fell onto his already soaked cheeks, perishing in the heat of his shower. His fingers clenched and flexed against the cold of the tiles in front of him, as he struggled to just keep breathing.

Eventually the water began to run cold and this time he couldn't stop it. As soon as it did, though, Dean was out of the shower and vigorously drying himself with a hideously bright towel. The peace he'd found last night seemed to have deserted him. The hole had returned, bigger and colder than ever before, and he could feel it trying to suck away all that was left of him. He sucked in what he hoped was a calming breath. He needed to shave, but he wasn't sure whether he could trust his hand right now, that close to his neck.

Pressing a quivering hand hard across his eyes, he breathed, and he thought of the job that still needed to be finished. With that thought, his shaking stopped. Conviction to his duty would get him through this. He just had to believe that. Because, in all honesty, he wasn't sure he could believe in anything else.

Ж

When he returned downstairs, freshly dressed and cleanly shaven, he found himself standing in a room that looked as if a bomb had hit it. That or a particularly malevolent spirit, Dean conceded, seeing as the latter was in fact the more likely of the two scenarios.

He walked slowly, trying to avoid stepping on the bits of paper, and various books strewn across the floor. He didn't quite succeed, but soon enough he found a little bit of unearthed carpet to stand upon safely.

"Missouri?" Dean called tentatively at first, followed with a slightly more concerned, "What the hell happened in here?" He threw his voice only as far as he thought was necessary, as he couldn't see her from where he was standing, and was unsure as to where she could be.

A minute later, with no response, Dean felt himself begin to tense. _What the fu-_

"BOO—!"

Dean's head swung around nearly 180 degrees at the sudden noise. He was so totally not impressed with the level of maturity currently being displayed. "How old _are _you, exactly?" He asked her, disbelief colouring his words as he leveled her with a half-hearted glare.

"Old enough to blame things like that on insanity," Missouri replied with glee.

Dean couldn't quite stop his eyes from rolling. He raised an eyebrow though, at the sight of her holding the most massive tome he had ever seen in his life, and he'd seen some of Sammy's law text books. This one, however, definitely had to take the cake.

"What's that?" He asked, curiosity winning over his attempt to act disgruntled at Missouri's childishness.

"This, my boy, is the 19th Volume of the _Nemodic Codex_." She held the dusty tome towards him.

"And just how many volumes are there?" He asked as he took it, and tried to wipe some of the dust off its cover.

"I wouldn't bother if I were you; I think the dust's just there for decoration. But to answer your question, I'd have to say there're no more than you need to see, and as far as I know, this is the only one that relates to you and yours."

"Wait, you said _Nemodic_? As in, 'demonic' but scrambled a bit?" He flipped the thing over and held it at eye height, to inspect it from a slightly different angle.

"You know what readings from the beyond are like. All mumblely-jumblely," Missouri sounded slightly amused as she said that.

"Yeah, but why didn't someone fix it then?" Dean wondered as he moved to open it.

One of Missouri's hands shot out to stop him. "You mightn't want to be doing that quite yet," she warned. "As for fixing it… well, sometimes, some mistakes are better left be," and cryptically enough, she refused to say more on the topic.

"Now take a seat," she ordered, gesturing to what was becoming his habitual sofa.

"Why do I get the feeling that all you ever do is tell me to sit down, shut up, and eat?"

"That's because you don't seem to be able to do it on your own, at least not without instructions."

"I see."

Once they were both seated, Missouri leaned forward and took the tome from his hands to place it on the coffee table between them. "This tome," she began, "is one of the most important of all the grimoires to ever fall into human hands. I know you're probably wondering why I've got, but in all reality, it's got me." She raised her hand just as Dean was opening his mouth, "this is the shut up part, now, but I'll be feeding you later, so don't you worry."

Dean felt a lip twitch slightly at her capricious manner. At the very least, no one could ever accuse her of being a bore.

"Now when I say grimoire, I do mean grimoire; a 'black book' of the damned. You see, when I was about your age, I know, I know, _ancient history_, that joke's _old_…"

_But not as old as you are? _Dean's snorted mentally at the thought, only to be slapped on the side of the head for his smart-assery.

"_As _I was saying," Missouri somehow almost managed to 'harrumph' the words, "back then, I encountered a _daimonizomai_, one that had been possessed by a demon from ahigher plane than would usually choose to travel this realm. For some reason he, though I assume he was really a gender neutral entity, said these books had chosen me, to be their guardian, and their source. These _books_, they're not just books. They're beings."

Dean couldn't quite stop his eyebrows from rising. Really, he couldn't. But Missouri just ignored his facial expression, as she was wont to do, and kept going with her explanation.

"I was much, much stronger then, much more than I am now, and these books are the reason. To keep them, they're bound to my life force, a drain on my psychic power, if you will. No one can see them, or touch them, without my say so, unless, of course, I'm dead. But if I don't tie them to someone else before that happens, they'll just fall back into the demon realms. Anyway, enough about me, more about these."

The way in which Missouri ran her fingertips over the cover was almost creepy. There was reverence, and respect. Perhaps even a little bit of _affection_ in the touch. How Dean knew this, well, it was not unlike the way in which he'd brushed Sammy's hair out of his eyes on more than one occasion. Or the way his hands would hover over Sammy's skin when he slept, and when he dreamed, as if Dean was able to draw some palpable assurance from the not quite touch. The heat of Sammy's skin the softest of soft sensations, that still managed to burn him to the soul.

Dean's eyes closed as he tried not to remember, tried not to let these feelings haunt him, or worse, make him shiver. But _God_, it hurt. _Rightfully so_, his mind lamented. And this time, he agreed.

Missouri's hand paused in her caress, as if she too had lost herself in thoughts, in memories. Again, she continued.

"The entire codex deals with all sorts of things: astrological predictions, the true names of angels and demons alike, directions on casting charms and spells and curses, recipes for medicinal potions, as well as poisons, the principles of summoning, the fashioning of talismans and amulets, the opening of portals, apocalyptic revelations… The list goes on. It's the last two though that relate to you and yours." Missouri paused and looked at him expectantly.

"How so?" Did she really expect more from him than that?

Apparently not, as she continued, barely missing a beat, "In this particular volume, there is a Prophecy. One your father knew well."

"Prophecy? A prophecy about what?"

"About your brother, Dean. A prophecy about your brother."

"About _Sammy_?" Dean sucked in a harsh breath. This was the answer he had been looking for, he knew it. This had to be it; finally he would know them: the whys and the wherefores. "Well, what did it _say_?" He could barely control the tremor in his voice. It betrayed him, and how much he'd wanted these answers. _Why didn't we come here before?_ He thought, stricken. Before he could get too carried away by that thought, a piece of paper was shoved in his face. He grabbed it, and read it aloud, greedily.

"_The one with the power to reign over Hell on Earth… born inside a shell of flesh, with powers of the mind, born as the 5__th__ month arrives… and he who has brought Hell to Earth will make him his heir and bind him as flesh to mind and spirit to essence… and he shall rule as his heir survives… the one with the power to reign over Hell on Earth will be born as the 5__th__ month arrives…"_

"Obviously," Missouri explained, "the one who _brought Hell to Earth _is that Demon of yours. The one, _born inside a shell of flesh, with powers of the mind_, well, that'd be your Sammy."

"_Born as the 5__th__ month arrives…_" Dean enunciated carefully. "The 2nd of May, Sammy's birthday."

Missouri nodded in agreement, "His heir, bound to him inextricably. I think both of you realized that Sammy was different from all the others, that he was… more powerful, and much more gifted."

"_He shall rule as his heir survives…_ So you're saying that since Sammy's," for some reason Dean couldn't quite bring himself to say it yet, _that_ word, "_gone_," he choked out instead, "the Demon couldn't stay?"

"Your father knew this verse, Dean. I know what he said to you. _'If you can't save him, you have to kill him_._'_ This verse, this prophecy is the reason why your father said what he did. He knew that if the Demon succeeded in taking control of your Sammy, there would be Hell to pay, and I mean that quite literally."

"But it didn't happen. I didn't save him. He wasn't swayed. He never _succumbed_. He would _never_…" at that Dean's voice broke just a little, and he had to swallow before he could speak again, "And I didn't have to kill him." _But you did…_ He gritted his teeth, as he tried to ignore the taunts the voice in his head whispered to him.

"I'm sorry, Dean. But some things just don't pan out how you expect them to. That's life for you." Not Missouri's most comforting words, but like they both knew, truth hurt.

"But, what do I do now?" Dean hadn't realized that he was still able to sound so young. More so than young, Dean realized, he sounded, and felt, lost. Here was his answer, the one he'd been looking for. Only, now that he had it, he could no longer remember the question.

"I know your father, Dean, he wouldn't have wanted Sam to be doing the kind of evil he would've had he succumbed, and I know," she raised her hand again, as she was wont to do to prevent him from speaking out of turn, "that Sam didn't. What I'm trying to say is, with your father, there's always more to it. He always had an eye for the bigger picture, only, that picture was always one painted to his liking. Stubborn, old bastard… Bless his soul."

"The bigger picture?" Dean's hands shook with anger he couldn't quite control, and the slip of paper fell from them, floating to land on the tome's hard surface. "_What_ bigger picture? The one where I'm stuck in a world with no one left, not even the goddamn son of a bitch I'm trying to destroy? The Demon's gone, Missouri. And I don't know where it went, or even how to find it again. Is _this _the bigger picture Dad wanted? _Is it_?"

Missouri took hold of one of the hands he'd been waving about emphatically, and squeezed it gently, but firmly. "Calm yourself, boy. The picture's much bigger than you could possibly imagine."

Dean breathed in a deep, calming breath, a little shakily. With his free hand, he rubbed tiredly at his eyes. "I take it you're going to enlighten me. Tell me, Missouri. What's so big about this picture?"

"For starters, I'm going to send you to find your brother."

Ж

To Be Continued...


	3. Chapter III

**Word from the Author:** Things are starting to pick up! ...Or so I would like to believe... Comments, feedback, reviews in general, all of which are all greatly appreciated. I look forward to hearing what you thought of this chapter. So, on with the show...!

**Disclaimer:** As it stands in chapter 1.

**Chapter 3**

Ж

**Interdimensional Theory of Consistency, **Extract from _Nemodic Codex_

_Les portes interdimensionnelles s'ouvrent pour ceux qui veulent changer le cours de la realité. Mais on ne doit jamais oublier que le cours de la realité se change au moment q__ue quelqu'un pense simplement à le changer. En même temps, on ne peut pas s'enfuir des choses certaines, car ces choses sont inevitables. Cependant, c'est la nature d'homme d'être toujours mécontente avec ce qui s'est passé._

**Traduison **de _Morgan Le Fay_

Interdimensional portals are opened for those who wish to change the course of reality. But one must never forget that the course of reality changes from the moment that someone simply thinks to change it. At the same time, one cannot escape certain things, for these things are inevitable. However, it is the nature of man to forever be malcontent with that which has come to pass.

Ж

Dean laughed nervously. "That's funny, for a second there I thought you said-"

"I'm going to send you to find your brother."

Dean's first reaction was to inhale sharply, half in hope, half in disbelief. His next was, "This is crazy. Even for _you_. You _know_ my brother's…"

Missouri just stared at him, her eyes glistening in the midmorning light that had come streaming in through half-opened blinds, "What, Dean? Your brother's what?"

Dean closed his eyes and somehow managed to choke the words out, "My brother's _dead_. And dead means _gone_. Are you happy now?"

"This isn't anything so simple as a matter of happy or sad, boy. Lives hang in the balance. You remember what I said about truth and good news? Guess what? Your truth, though it may hurt, just so happens to have a little good news mixed in with it. Shouldn't you be grateful for that?"

Dean swallowed and nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess," he mumbled before opening his eyes and simply staring at his clasped hands.

"I know you're confused. I know what you think life's taught you; that dead things should stay dead. But that's only half of the puzzle. What you don't know, probably because you ain't got even an _ounce_ of psychic power in you," Dean looked up a little disgruntled at the frequency at which Missouri seemed to enjoy pointing this out, but she just grinned at him sharply, "is that this realm ain't the only one out there. Sure you've got your heavens and your hells to consider, not to mention all kinds of limbo, which includes what lies beyond the Veil, but then there are also other worlds out there, worlds that exist parallel to this one."

"You're talking about alternate realities, aren't you?" Dean questioned skeptically.

"That's right. And don't you take that tone of voice with me. No one likes a skeptic, Dean. You've seen things. Things that other people can't even dream up in their worst nightmares. You'd think that would make this a little easier to swallow."

Dean laughed, but it was a dark sound, "I only believe in what I've seen."

"That's fine by me," Missouri stated calmly. "After all, you'll _see_, soon enough. But before the proof, you need the theory. So here goes. In each and every other universe out there, it's possible that you exist. Or rather, that your soul exists. So long as your soul doesn't go and get itself stuck in this realm when you die, it's able to move on, backwards, forwards, sideways, until it's got everything it needs to ascend to a higher plane of existence."

"So what you're telling me is that when I die," Dean interrupted in a still skeptical voice, "I'm just gonna get shoved somewhere through the space/time continuum and wake up as someone else?"

"I'm surprised you know what the space/time continuum _is_."

"Hey! I'm not stupid."

"Well, you ain't exactly an expert on metaphysics, either."

"Yeah, well…" Dean fumbled around the back of his mind for some kind of witty comeback.

"Cool it, boy, before you hurt yourself. I'm just yanking your chain, is all."

_I'd thank you to keep your hands off of my chain,_ Dean thought viciously at Missouri.

Missouri simply snorted at that and made no move to comment. As Sammy would say, '_I'm not touching that one with a ten-foot pole…_'

"It's like this," she announced. "You gain something from each time your soul exists in a reality. When you die, it moves on to another reality, where it is _born_, into a body that grows up, grows old and eventually dies, allowing the soul to once again move on. It's because of the fact that time isn't linear that your soul can exist in an infinite amount of universes at the one time. In other words, your mission is to find your Sammy's soul, in whichever universe the Demon is targeting, and to kill that… what was it you like to call it? Ah, that's right, that _evil son of a bitch _before he destroys that reality and moves on into the next."

Dean's breath seemed to escape him in a rush at Missouri's words. _Find your Sammy's soul…_ "So when you say you know where I need to go… You mean to tell me, you know where to find the Demon? And Sammy's soul? In _another reality_?"

"That's precisely it. Lucky for you though," Missouri enthused, "you won't even have to crack a book for this. I've had this prepared for some time now. I just had to wait for the main ingredient."

"What? Why? What's the main ingredient?"

"You, of course."

"…Of course… But hey, if I don't have to crack any books, why'd you bother showing me the _Codex_?" Dean asked confused.

"I talked about them quite a bit, haven't I? Don't you feel better, a little less skeptical, maybe, having _seen_ the source of the Prophecy?"

Dean groaned at having Missouri throw back at him his words about only believing what he could see with his own two eyes. "And so what you said about research and preparation…"

"I never said _you_ had to do anything, did I?"

"What? So I just have to sit here, like, like dead weight?"

Missouri smiled, "What you might want to do, mister, is pack a few supplies."

There was a contemplative silence that followed Missouri's suggestion, as if Dean were taking stock of what to bring.

"Shit!" Dean exclaimed suddenly. "The _Impala_! You're not gonna tell me I can't take the Impalaare you?" Dean's voice took on a slightly desperate edge.

"So that was a bit of a lie then, wasn't it, when you said you had nothing to come back to?"

"But– _Impala_– I– I wasn't thinking–," Dean spluttered.

"Yes," Missouri deadpanned. "I see that's a habit."

"Hey!" Dean cried indignantly.

Missouri just laughed. "I was expecting that you'd be unable to leave the thing behind."

"The _thing_?!" Dean whispered, incensed.

A slap to the side of the head was followed by, "What did I tell you about cussing at me, boy?"

Dean muttered incoherently in response to Missouri's sharp tone.

"Exactly, don't. But just so you know, I've already adjusted the base arithmetic index to make a portal big enough for you to pull an Angel."

Dean just stared at her blankly.

"Oh come on, you know. Where Angel, Lorne, Gunn and Wesley _drive _through a portal to the Host's dimension?"

"Oh. Oh! It's coming back to me now… 1968 Plymouth Belvedere GTX Convertible… _God_, she was hot…"

And thus it was Missouri's turn to stare. "You, Dean Winchester, are unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable."

"_What_? I like cars, ok."

"That's not liking. That's an obsession, and probably an unhealthy one at that."

"Yeah, well. There are worst things you could be obsessed with. Like, the Dark Arts, for example."

"That's a _very _nice comparison, honey," Missouri's falsely sweet tone was _dripping_ sarcasm, so much so it was nigh on disgusting.

"Shut up," came the eloquent retort.

"Thank you, Missouri, for your indescribable consideration of me and my material fixation. I don't think I could ever truly tell you just how much I appreciate what you're doing for me."

"Yeah, thanks," Dean grunted reluctantly.

Missouri, of course, accepted his thanks gracefully. She knew that this boy wasn't one with words, he hated using them to express his feelings, and he hated people trying to convey theirs using words too. Luckily enough for her, she could literally feel his gratitude, radiating at her warmly. She wistfully thought about how wonderful it would have been for the both of them, had Sam lived long enough to develop such an aptitude that he wouldn't have needed words to be spoken for them to be heard. She hadn't been kidding when she'd said that he'd likely find a reason to stay. Hopefully this time round, he'd get to keep what he had always wished for.

Missouri turned her head away and closed her eyes, taking a moment to reinforce her mental shields. It was hard to keep them up against the onslaught of anguish pouring off of the lost little boy hidden inside the young man in front of her. If she even let her walls down a little, she would hear a deep, rhythmic pulse, that almost sounded like a heartbeat. It was only when she focused on the sound that she could distinguish the meaning behind the noise. As it was, beneath all conscious thought was a never-ending mantra–

–_mysammysammysammysammysammysammy_...

don'tleaveme

Ж

They got to work immediately. Dean packing away his freshly washed and dried clothing, along with a variety of storable food goods, into the Impala before driving it around back to where Missouri was to be found, standing at the edge of an incredibly large circular slab of concrete.

From what Dean could see she was holding a tray upon which lay several, seven to be precise, plastic bags, all varying in size and all filled with what seemed to be herb-like substances. As he was getting out of the Impala, she gently placed the tray beside the concrete slab, before turning towards him.

"Have you got all you need?" Missouri enquired expectantly.

"Yeah," Dean affirmed casually. "The only thing I'm missing is how exactly all this is going to work."

"To start off with, our channel…" Missouri bent to pick up a big piece of chalk, the kind that kids often played with before they fully mastered hand to eye co-ordination. She began etching a set of seven concentric circles upon the concrete, each about half a meter diametrically spaced from one another, with a single line, which appeared almost randomly placed, within each of the six shells, followed by a glyph that Dean was unfamiliar with drawn in the innermost circle.

"This symbol here, I know you're wondering, is the Cyrillic letter 'zhe' (Ж). Children are often taught to remember it as a young frog, because of its shape. More importantly, to us at least, you'll see that it resembles the Greek, which also then evolved into the Latin, alphabet's 'K', standing back to back with a mirror reversed image of itself. The symbolic importance of the letter 'k' originates from the Egyptian hieroglyph for the letter D which was the image of a hand. The ancient Semites adopted this glyph. However, they assigned a phonetic value of 'k' to it, as the beginning sound for _their_ word for hand was exactly that. In alchemy, a certain chemical combination of herbs or other minerals can be used to enhance a symbol and the thought-evolution that created it. The letter K is representative of a hand, and the Cyrillic symbol I have shown you resembles two such Ks, that is to say, two hands, pressed together in direct opposition – a balance that generates equality and spiritual reflections. Thus, this symbol in conjunction with these seven herbs, one for each of the Seven Gates that guard the soul, will function as keys to opening a channel through which paracosmic energy can be focused to create a portal to another dimension. Making sense so far?"

"As much as that's all fan-fucking-tastic, Missouri," Dean delivered evenly. "How in the name of the high hells am I meant to know where to find Sammy's soul, not to mention, how do you even know that the portal will open to where the Demon is? I mean, what if you send me to the wrong dimension? Then what?"

"First of all, finding Sammy's soul. Well, while you were sleeping, I took a little blood," Missouri said with her usual cool, and then just kept speaking over Dean's loud exclamation of '_you did WHAT?_', "and melded it with this crystal. Blood is life, and soul is essence. The crystal both distills soul from blood, as well as amplifying its links to other souls it has or will someday encounter. The stronger the crystal glows blood red the closer you are to coming in contact with a soul that is _kindred _to your own. For you, in this search, the crystal will also glow with streaks of gold. Why, you ask? I don't think you realize this, but in truth, your Sammy was, without doubt, your soul mate. And that's why you shouldn't have any trouble using this method to find him. You can't get more kindred than that."

"My _soul mate_?" Dean questioned, disbelieving. At Missouri's nod and quirk of a brow, he merely repeated the words, as if testing the feel of them in his mouth. "My soul mate…" He paused, thought and then asked hesitantly, not realizing how much his words were betraying him, "You mean, I was _meant_ to love him?"

"Yes," Missouri replied simply. Of course, in this case, she knew exactly what Dean was talking about, and if she hadn't known the two of them and the life they'd led up to this point, she might've been a bit more squeamish about social norms. Then again, she was hardly one to be preaching about conformity. After all, in her own way she was just as socially unacceptable as a brother who obviously not only _loved_ but was also _in love_ with his little brother. Instead of deriding the notion and all its implications, she merely put stock in the fact that love was love no matter how unnatural others thought it.

"Soul mates will always love each other," she assured him, and for proprieties' sake went on to say, "Mind you, that doesn't always equal sex. For the most part, it just relates to a perfect balance of qualities, capabilities, instincts and experiences," which was the truth. "The eternal yin and yang, if you will. Truth be told, this method of scrying," she dangled the blood crystal, which was giving off a very faint glow, in front of him so as to indicate what method she was referring to, "can be a bit iffy when used simply to look for souls that happen to reincarnate within the proximity of relationships. But I know it will work for you, because of what you share. I could tell, ever since the two of you were little that your souls were as closely bound together in their fate as ever two souls could be."

"_Soul mate_," Dean whispered, reverently, a look of utter awe on his face.

"And as for the Demon," Missouri continued, after giving Dean a moment to digest, _as if that was all he was doing_. "As much as it pains me to say it, that chalk over yonder. It's made from your mother's bones."

Dean looked at her in surprise, "Why–"

"Do I have them? Your father left them with me to keep them safe and pure, in case the day came that I would need them for this. I had sealed them within a _tenfuuin_, which I renewed every solstice and equinox until her spirit moved on, to ensure that her spirit never became malicious because of her violent death."

Dean still seemed doubtful.

"You'll be going where you need to go, boy. I can assure you of that much."

Inanely she thought of promising him _mom's the word_, but found the words to be like ash in her mouth, distasteful at best. So instead she promised, a little differently, "You have my word. Finding him within that haystack however, well, that's your needle."

"So long as I'm in the right realm, I'll get it done." The declaration was made, in a voice low and fierce, and Missouri could see determination written in every line of his body.

"I know you will, honey," Missouri affirmed confidently, as she pressed the crystal, already with a leather cord threaded through the smaller end of the gem, against Dean's palm. She closed his hand over it tightly. "You just do what you do best, and hunt that _evil son of a bitch_ down."

Dean smiled faintly, and clasped the crystal firmly in his hand. He then took it by the cord and slipped it over his head, the stone falling to rest against his chest, a warm and reassuring weight. He took it in his hand once more, tenderly, and turned it round, and around again, before letting it drop inside his shirt.

"Let's do it."

Ж

"As you're the one who'll be traveling through this here portal, I need you to take a handful of each herb and sprinkle it on each respective circle, whilst walking in a clockwise direction," Missouri commanded as she picked up the tray and handed it to him. "I'm sure you can balance that on one hand while you use the other for your sprinkling."

"You make it sound so dirty…"

"Make what sound so dirty?" Missouri asked, sounding more amused than confused.

"Sprinkling," Dean muttered, slightly chagrinned by the fact that he wasn't sure why he found it to be so.

Missouri just smirked at him, as she was wont to do. Dean wondered whether it was her most innate facial expression, before asking, "So what's what? And which goes in what order?"

"First up," Missouri began, "_Harpagophytum procumbens_, or to the layman, that's you, Devil's Claw, our physical sedative." Missouri picked up the largest of the plastic bags, and tilted it so Dean could look inside.

"Second, we have Ginseng, which increases the body's resistance to stress, including trauma, anxiety and bodily fatigue," again Missouri indicated which bag contained the herb in question. It was only a fraction smaller than the one holding the Devil's Claw.

"Third is Kokam, which purifies the blood," she pointed again to a bag slightly smaller than the last. "For the fourth Gate, Sage – and I'm sure you remember your Latin," at Dean's nod she continued, "– _salvia_, for healing. Parsley comes fifth, enhancing mental awareness, while Rosemary follows next, a stimulant, for remembrance. And lastly, for the seventh Gate, Thyme is for courage and an assurance of passage into the next life."

"Shouldn't it be Parsley, then Sage, Rosemary and Thyme?"

Missouri's response was to sniff indignantly and sneer, "Definitely not. That's just some rank amateur's feel good rendition of alchemic doctrines. If you were to actually try and use them in that order, you'd likely go insane. You can only enhance mental awareness once you finish purification and healing, because believe you me, those are _not_ happy processes!"

"Ok…" Dean drawled slowly. "So," Dean looked at Missouri pointedly, "how exactly are these meant to help me with the…" he paused, trying to think of a term that best described what he was about to do, "_transition_… if I don't actually come in contact with them? I mean, as we've established, it's not like I'm going to be walking through them…"

Missouri shot him a look that spoke volumes for what she thought of his intellect. "Once they're laid," Dean snorted at her choice of words, causing her glare to deepen, "they adhere to the Gate to which they belong, while the incantation invokes each of the Gates to open and merge, radiating from innermost to outermost. Each of the Gates forms a layer of the portal, meaning that when you," Missouri held up a hand to halt the protestation already forming in Dean's mind, "yes, _and _the Impala, pass through them you'll be getting your contact then, starting with the one imbued with Devil's Claw, which will, as per its properties, relax you physically, that is to say on a molecular basis. And thus it continues, with each Gate being a level of preparation to ensure that you get to your destination, safe in body and sound of mind. Now, get to it!"

Dean hastened to do as he had been instructed. Starting from where Missouri had indicated he should, and walking clockwise, letting a steady stream of the Devil's Claw pour from his loosely cupped palm and onto the marking of the outermost circle.

Given the size and the number of the circles, all up it took him 10 minutes at most, with a few stop-starts where he had to clarify which herb came next.

When he was done, Missouri told him to go sit in the Impala. She pulled a piece of parchment out from her left sleeve, and unrolled it carefully. She then stepped up to where she had instructed Dean to start the ritual from and began to chant softly, in a language that sounded foreign even to Dean.

He was a little taken aback to see Missouri crackle, sparks of electricity seemed to pulse their way out from under her skin, before licking at the atmosphere and dispersing in small flashes of light. Missouri resembled a mini storm. The air around her was filled with power. Dean could feel it even within the shelter provided by the Impala.

Missouri's voice gradually picked up in tempo, and in volume, until it was the thunder to accompany her lightning.

The circles had begun to glow ethereal and ephemeral, the light pulsing inwards, drawn out from Missouri and surging towards an apex above the central symbol. A crack seemed to rend through reality, and it was just like Dean remembered it, only instead of fire there was light, and where the hole had been black, now it was white.

The crack grew, and groaned and as it expanded it was as Missouri had said. The scatterings of herbs were swallowed up and integrated into each newly created layer.

Finally, the last of the Devil's Claw was swept from the ground in a turbulent outburst of that pure white light. Then Missouri's voice cut out, its echoes resounding in the sudden silence. With each resonance the portal seemed to physically stabilize, until it stood unwavering. All Seven Gates as One.

Missouri only joined him once the portal had opened completely. She looked at him a second before telling him, "This time, try not to screw it up."

Dean looked horrified, shocked, dismayed, aghast. In fact, you name it, Dean was showing it, not to mention feeding it to her loud and clear. Above all else, though, what she was reading from him was anguish, pure and simple. "Idiot boy," she said gently, almost affectionately, "I meant about letting him know how you feel."

Dean seemed appeased by that. Then he looked at her oddly, "But even though he is, he's not _really _Sammy…"

Missouri smiled one of her mystic's smiles, "You just wait and see. Then try and tell me he's not really _your _Sammy."

Dean could almost feel the beginnings of a blush crawl onto his cheeks. The suggestive emphasis Missouri had placed on '_your_' had left no doubt in his mind that she knew _exactly_ what kind of feelings he'd had for his brother. He felt a tingle of shame, before he squashed it magnificently. He had nothing to be ashamed of. On a technicality, his love had been pure, 'til the very end.

Missouri smirked at him, _again_ in as many minutes, "I don't think it's going to work quite like that this time round."

She slapped the top of the Impala, signaling that it was time to get gone, and Dean didn't even scold her for it. Instead, he smiled and once more she felt his gratitude. There really were no words for it, were she to try to describe its depth or its strength.

As neither of them were ones for long-winded, tearful goodbyes, Dean simply revved the Impala, before stepping down on the gas and heading straight into the gigantic, but strangely solid looking, glowing ball of energy. And before he knew it, the world went white and wonky.

Ж

To Be Continued...

* * *

**Random trivia**: I actually timed myself walking around in seven concentric circles spaced about half a meter diametrically from each other, with my hand cupped as Dean would have had his, so as to 'sprinkle' the herbs onto their respective circles. No one was home at the time... ' 


	4. Chapter IV

**Word from the Author:** The long awaited meeting...! Kinda... Well, anyway, enjoy as always and review if you will. Now, go forth and read!

**Disclaimer:** As it stands in chapter 1.

**Chapter 4**

Ж

Dean woke to a sudden blast of warmth and light, flailing slightly in surprise. As sleep slowly left him, he realized that both the warmth and the light that had woken him were still present, and emanating in slight pulses, almost like a steady heart beat, from the crystal tucked under his shirt.

Curious, he lifted it from beneath his shirt, to find the colours within it swirling fiercely. A perpetual whirlpool of red and gold weaved in and out of each other, creating patterns and tracing paths too complex for Dean to make any sense of. This did nothing to detract from the beauty of its captivating display. Dean stared at the colours, feeling them pulling him in. He felt as if he were wrapped in warmth, entranced and enchanted, captured in a magician's spell. The world seemed to centre in on that one point, and the only colours that existed then and there were that of blood and sunlight.

The thump of something landing on the hood of the Impala snapped Dean out of the near trance he had entered. Looking through the windscreen dazedly, he realized that there was a black cat sitting on his car, gazing at him intently through the glass that separated them. A second later, it was gone. _A black cat crossed my path_, Dean thought to himself and smiled.

Despite all the symbolic associations of black cats with ill omens and death he had always been fond of them, for their sleek and mysterious beauty, their assiduous agility, and their ability to blend in with the shadows. He felt a strong kinship with the creatures, and found that whenever he encountered one, he would usually end up having a surprisingly good day.

Returning his attention to the crystal, still warm in his hand, he realized that the magnetic pull he'd felt earlier had all but disappeared. There was an undercurrent, but not enough to steal from him his senses.

It was a moment before Missouri's words returned to him. _The stronger the crystal glows blood red the closer you are to coming in contact with a soul that is _kindred _to your own. For you, in this search, the crystal will also glow with streaks of gold._

This could only mean one thing. Sammy's soul was near.

Ж

The first thing Dean had done after his realization was to leave the Impala parked inconspicuously around the corner from where he'd landed, near a park that had looked welcoming enough, although very few children were playing on it. _It's starting to get dark_, Dean rationalized.

He then took it by foot. Dean assumed that most of the people in the neighbourhood would soon be coming home from work or otherwise occupied with preparations for dinner and such.

His decision to leave the Impala had been based on the fact that for some reason, its make, despite its obvious class, had felt out of place here. Wherever here was, that is. And one thing was for certain, there was no need to go out of one's way to be associated with _peculiarity_ if one could help it.

Dean nonchalantly strolled down the street, the crystal clutched in his fist, so that he could easily monitor both its fluctuations in colour and in heat. The pace at which he walked suggested that although he wasn't loitering he had no desire to rush. A look of relative boredom was fixed upon his face, while in truth his eyes took in as much as they could.

Dean looked indifferently at the quaint, little suburban cottage he was just walking past, while on the inside he was grimacing mildly in disgust. It looked just like all the other cottages crammed together on the small street. Not that living in motel rooms his whole life left him much leeway for complaint. Nevertheless, the houses looked as if someone had commissioned the whole lot at once, the only sign of individuality residing in the colouration of front doors and the various ornaments attached to each abode and its surrounding property. For the most part, even the gardens were oddly conformist, although some obviously more aptly maintained than others.

It almost made a chill run down Dean's spine, one he managed to hold off through sheer force of will alone. He'd been a lot of places in America, and he'd seen a lot of creepy things, but this was just _wrong_. Or, rather _not right_, if he wanted to be technical. Something about the place felt strange, but not quite supernaturally so, and for Dean that was somehow even creepier than he could have imagined.

Having nearly reached the end of the street, he read from a distance the signpost at its entrance. '_PRIVET DRIVE_,' it proclaimed boldly in capital letters, the white of the sign seeming already dulled with age, while the blue font was no less inviting.

_Privet Drive?_ Dean questioned in his mind, the name itself jarring him with a sense of xenophobia.

It was just as he was nearing the sign that the blood crystal suddenly gave off a blast of heat hot enough that Dean almost dropped the gem in shock. Almost instantly, it had cooled down to its previous warmth but Dean had already stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes flickering around, searching.

As soon as Dean's eyes grazed across the number '4' on the house across the road, heat flared again, and Dean cursed at the crystal even as he withdrew his line of sight from the number, and juggled the thing between both hands, hot-potato style.

Dean looked up warily, now holding the crystal by its leather thong, and waited. The light emanating from the stone seemed to have stabilized. In fact, the colour of the crystal itself resembled a yin and yang, only drawn in red and gold instead of black and white.

Testing to see whether he'd gotten it right, Dean took a step back and noted how the glow seemed to dull slightly. Returning to where he'd stood and taking a step forward, the crystal grew no brighter, but instead held steady. Just to be sure, he tried moving left and right, towards the houses on each side, returning once again to stand and stare as the crystal's light diminished each time he moved further from the house now before him.

_Number 4, Privet D__rive it is_, Dean thought satisfied. _I've got you now, Sammy-boy_.

Ж

Even so, Dean knew it would be reckless to simply barge on in. He still had to figure out to whom Sammy's soul now belonged. In other words, a little recon was in order.

Having found his venue, Dean retreated to the Impala. After making use of the public facilities available at the park and grabbing some food and liquids from the trunk, Dean bunked down behind the wheel, reclining in his seat to wait until twilight arrived. Only then would he drive back to sit watch outside the residency, and maybe he'd take a prowl around the property itself to see what weaknesses or possible points of entry he could make use of.

But he'd think about that after he rested. He needed his wits about him. After all, this was possibly the most important Hunt of his life.

Ж

It was pitch-dark in the park when Dean awoke. He stretched and looked about, yawning as he did so. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he started the ignition. He made a U-y before turning into Privet Drive and parking across the road from number 4.

From a duffel bag on the passenger's seat, Dean pulled a pair of binoculars. Almost all the houses on the street were little beacons of light, which actually only made Dean's job easier.

The arrangement of the furniture made it hard to see much clearly in the living room. There seemed to be 3 occupants within said room, but for some reason Dean couldn't fathom, his eyes kept shifting away from the living room, each time coming to rest on the small upstairs window. There seemed to be a faint light within the room itself, but odder still was the fact that the window in question had a few of padlocks on it.

That was definitely strange. It also didn't make sense. If it had been about keeping people out, then all of the house should have displayed similar means of protection. But to Dean's expert eyes, the security for the rest of the house was sorely lax. For all intents and purposes, this translated fairly easily: whoever these people were, more so than keeping something out, they were trying to keep something in.

What exactly… Dean wasn't so sure. Thinking about it, he realized he'd probably have to treat the house as if it were haunted. He doubted it was. But it seemed like the most efficient line of enquiry to think by. He would probably have to talk to some of the neighbours to see what they knew about the place, and the people who lived there.

Dean was a bit hesitant about approaching the residents of the house itself. He didn't want to head into this unprepared. He wanted to know as much as he could about the person Sam's soul belonged to in this universe before he even tried to contact him.

With a plan of action now more firmly established, Dean slipped from the Impala, ready to physically inspect the grounds and the overall exterior layout of the property in question.

Silently he moved, stepping over a low garden wall and veering away from the garden path to step lightly on the manicured lawn, perfunctory in its perfectionism, trying to the best of his ability to minimize any unnecessary signs of his having been there.

It took Dean a solid 40 minutes before he was sure he knew what he needed to know. By the time he was done the family, he assumed that's what they were, within was already starting to get ready for bed.

Dean shrugged, thinking that he could do with some more sleep. He looked at the Impala and considered his options, whether he should move back to the park, or stay here. In the end he decided to simply stay put, assured in the knowledge that he'd be up at the crack of dawn anyway, and that he could get a move on then.

Ж

To Dean's shock he was awoken by the sound of grass being mowed. Looking around he could see the vestiges of dawn breaking on the horizon. But weirder still was the fact that the neighbourhood seemed to be more alive that he'd seen at any point yet.

A little disturbed, Dean wondered whether he'd made the right decision, but decided not to second guess his instincts and just go with whatever happened. The fact that no one seemed to be paying him any undue attention made it easier for him to accept the consequences, non-existent as they were, for his choice.

Hearing his stomach rumble, Dean leaned over to grab an unopened pack of peanut M&Ms from his food stock on the floor on the passenger's side. As he was doing so, he froze. The door to number 4 Privet Drive had just swung open, displaying a highly overweight and slightly over the hill man who appeared to have a rather ungainly bushy mustache. The man wobbled out of the house and was followed by a woman who was as skinny as he was fat. The woman was dressed in a fetid floral design that did nothing for her pallor, and even less for her figure. She was overly tall looking, especially standing next to the short mustached man. She bid him goodbye, as she dramatically pressed a kiss to his fat, wobbling cheek. He got in his car and drove off.

That was 2 of the 3, he'd seen last night, Dean noted absently.

Just as Dean finished that thought, an enormously fat teen, who oddly enough looked like a bleached-blond whale, exited the house, grumbling and waddling out to whinge at the woman, who Dean assumed was his mother. At that precise moment, the crystal once again lying against his chest gave a quiver, before radiating a warmth slightly greater than was normal. Dean's eyes widened comically as his stomach turned, _Oh god… That… That _thing…_ it couldn't be Sammy!_

It was a split second later that Dean's eyes focused on a smaller, much smaller when compared to the Whale in front of him, boy lurking at the doorway of the house. As Dean's eyes rested on him, the crystal almost seemed to tremble. Dean absently hooked it out from under his shirt, to spare it a quick glance. Streaks of gold were rushing madly near the surface of the gem.

Dean sat stock still at the wheel of the Impala, his hands tightening until the skin of his knuckles whitened under the pressure. His heart raced, and he simply stared and drank in the sight of the young man, who seemed to possess a fragility that Dean never would have expected to see in Sammy. He suddenly felt an overwhelming, scarily more so than usual, urge to wrap this boy in his arms and protect him from anything that could possibly deem to harm him.

Dean swallowed thickly, fighting the urge to run over and simply haul the boy over his shoulder before running off with him. The thought was irrational, and full-hardy, but just seeing who he knew had to be carrying Sam's soul, he could _feel _it in the very marrow of his bones, standing there awkward amongst this family to which he should have belonged angered Dean more than he could say. He could tell, simply by looking, that these people weren't his parents, that that fat lump wasn't any sibling of his. They showed him none of the due affection, none of the due love he deserved.

_Soon_, Dean resolved, _soon, I'll whisk you away and you'll never again know what it feels like to be unwanted, or unloved_.

As soon as the door shut upon mother and son, and the boy-who-didn't-belong, Dean got out of the Impala, ready to do some questioning. After all, his brother needed him.

Ж

The first door he'd knocked upon had been about 3 houses down. To his surprise he was met by odd accents, and it turned out that the couple who lived there had just moved in from Australia. Apparently they had moved for the weather. Dean wasn't sure why though; from what he'd seen it had been overcast for some time now and just a little dreary. He supposed that they might have just had bad timing. American weather wasn't always sunshine and blue skies. Then again, if they'd been wanting that, Dean wondered why they hadn't just stayed 'down under.'

He welcomed them to the neighbourhood explaining that he himself had only just settled in a couple of houses down, only for a brief visit, relatives, you know, and was glad to see other new faces from the ones who'd been there 5 years back. They'd laughed, and he'd been taken by their easy-going nature and charming smiles. They'd seemed very much in love, and it had been nice.

He asked them what they'd heard about the neighbourhood before they had decided to move in. They'd politely enquired as to why he didn't know, and he'd simply said that his family wasn't all that big on talking, _too true, except for Sammy of course_, and that if he ever wanted to know something he usually had to go by other sources. The young woman had smiled at him gently and only then had he noticed how lovely she was. She admitted that her family was much the same, not one to air dirty laundry, lest the neighbours find out, she'd ended on a mock whisper. Her husband was obviously trying not laugh at what Dean surmised may have been a bit more of an in-joke than he knew. But it was awfully relaxing, after all the stress he'd been weighed down by the past few weeks, to have found such innocuously good company.

They'd even invited him in for "a spot of tea", an odd turn of phrase, definitely not one Dean heard often… at all, but he simply chalked it up as being something Australians had apparently inherited from the 'mother country'.

Inside, they'd simply chatted about ordinary everyday things. But apparently Bec, the wife, had just fallen pregnant. She and her husband were still arguing over names, they told him. They'd already decided Ruth if it were a girl, but if it were a boy…

They'd turned to him then, and asked him, _so, Dean, got a favourite boy's name?_ He'd hesitated a moment, but responded in a firm voice, "Yeah… Sam… Samuel, Sammy."

As soon as he'd said it, Bec's eyes had lit up, and she'd laughed, delighted. _That's the name I picked!_ She'd exclaimed happily, before turning to her husband to poke him in the side and say, _told you it was better than Jonathon!_

_I dunno, Jon's kinda a family name_, Markhad said. _But we could always save it for the next one_.

It was a couple of hours before Dean managed to escape, not that he'd really wanted to. He didn't want to impose, however, so eventually he said his goodbyes, and he wished them all the best, especially with the baby.

As he'd turned and walked down the garden path away from Bec and Mark's home, he felt compelled for reasons untold to whisper a quiet benediction upon the child, _may he or she grow up to know happiness, love and the importance of family_.

Ж

Before the day was out, Dean managed to garner a fair deal of information. The Dursley family lived at number 4 Privet Drive. The man of the house, Vernon Dursley worked at a drill company, while the lady with the face of a horse and the neck of a giraffe was, Petunia Dursley, a house wife by profession but a gossiper at heart. Their son, Dudley Dursley, the name at which Dean had snorted profusely, was a 'hearty' young fellow, who currently attended a prodigious boy's school, called "Smeltings" and boy had Dean's eyebrow risen at the name.

The other occupant, the one who really held Dean's interest was still somewhat of a mystery. No one seemed to know anything about him. Not his name, nor his age, where he went to school, how he was related to the Dursleys, nothing at all.

Except the cat lady, who had looked at him awfully suspiciously, before he'd explained he was with the National Child Welfare Agency, looking into possible neglect within extended families. She'd told him then, reluctantly, that the boy was a nephew, and that he would be wise to stay away from him. When Dean had asked her why, her eyes had shifted in a way that told Dean she was formulating a lie, or at least she was going to try and give him as little of the truth as possible. _As soon as holidays are over,_ she'd explained._ He'll be sent away to St Brutus' Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys_.

Dean had certainly jerked back in surprise at that. That definitely didn't fit with the image of the boy he'd seen. Dean trusted his instincts, and Sammy, and there was no way he could be criminally insane. _Unless_… Some voice whispered in Dean's head, and he'd crushed it viciously, even if there was an 'unless', Dean would fix it. No matter what; there was no way he was going to let Sammy down this time.

Having heard enough, more than enough, not nearly enough about this boy-who-held-Sammy's-soul, Dean thanked the cat lady politely, informing her of the service she'd done her community.

She'd smiled at him a little at that. Before she'd turned away muttering something about, 'fire-calls' and 'dumble-doors'.

Dean wondered at the validity of her information, before recalling that he'd dismissed it anyhow. Looks like if he wanted to know about the boy, there was only one way he was going to be able to find out…

Ж

With what little time he had left before sunset, Dean drove around the area, looking for some kind of motel, or somewhere he could at least _freshen up_ before his rendezvous. He didn't really want to leave the boy with the impression of psychotic, smelly, serial killer trying to kill you in your sleep if he could help it.

To Dean's frustration it was a few kilometers before he found anything remotely resembling a motel, and even then it was called the 'Little Whinging Inn.' And damn if that wasn't the weirdest name for a motel Dean had ever come across.

He stopped at the front door, realizing that his credit card scams mightn't work here… I mean, what if they didn't have gold cards in this alternate universe? Dean laughed a bit nervously at the thought. Everything so far had been, well, not _too_ strange. Nothing that he couldn't easily accept, at least.

He considered hustling some pool, or playing cards. But to do that, Dean preferred to have a bit of cash spare to back him up, lest Lady Luck wasn't with him. He thought about whether he'd brought any US cash with him. But on second thought, they couldn't possibly have a national figure head that looked identical to the one in his universe, could they? Such currency would be just about as good to him as monopoly money.

He suddenly had an idea. Maybe he could sell a dagger or something to the "Inn-keeper." It seemed appropriate. So he tried.

It went over surprisingly well. Apparently the guy who owned the place was a bit of a collector. The walls of the inn were covered in various historic memorabilia. The weapons caught his attention, but nothing was familiar about the stories behind them. Dean shrugged; he'd never been much good with history: it had always been more Sammy's area of expertise. _One among millions_, Dean thought with a sense of pride that was also tinged slightly with sadness.

The dagger, however, got him a room for the week, _double bed, sweet_, and food, which was awesome. As soon as he'd been given the key, he made a B-line dash to the bathroom where he rushed through his ablutions, shaving, showering, the works, before he had a wholesome deep fried dinner and was off.

Ж

It was about 10.30 that night when Dean got back to number 4. He left the Impala near the park as he'd done the day before, and walked silently through the dark shelter of the night.

When he reached the house, again, he crossed over the low garden wall, the tread of his footsteps making only the barest of sounds. With the skill of a first class Hunter, Dean scaled the wall of the house, using the drain pipe as a means of balance. This took him to the garage top; from there it took a little bit of a leap, at which stage Dean had to grab onto the ledge of the boy-who-was-meant-to-be-Sammy's bedroom window, and haul himself onto it. He had to pick his way through three padlocks on the window, before he was finally able to pull one of the panes open.

He then entered the poorly lit room, but not before his boot connected with a strange deformity on the lip of the window sill…

Ж

For awhile now, Harry had had the strangest sensation that he was being watched. The fact that he was being watched wasn't what was strange about it however. Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived, was very much, 5 years down the track, used to being watched. No, the strange thing was that, for once, it felt reassuring. As if these eyes were a warm blanket that made him feel both comfortable and at ease, enough so that for the first night since Sirius had gone through the Veil, Harry found he was able to fall into a deep sleep, one which was un-plagued by nightmares and visions.

It was sometime later that Harry was woken by a strange rattling noise. He sat up abruptly, a hand automatically shooting out to grab his glasses. With his eyesight restored, he scanned the room looking for the cause of the rattling. Harry's eyes widened behind slightly smudged lenses. There appeared to be an incredibly good-looking stranger climbing in through Harry's bedroom window.

Harry's breath caught in his throat as he watched the beautiful stranger stagger upon entry and swear, as he dropped light-footed into a crouch on Harry's bedroom floor. From what Harry could tell the swearing was directed at both the number of locks that secured his window shut, as well as at the overall structure of Harry's window frame.

Harry watched silently, his hands clutching at his quilt, as the stranger suddenly turned his head sideways, his own vibrant green eyes locking onto Harry's. Harry found himself surprised that he could tell what colour this stranger's eyes were, but for some reason, it felt more like a memory, one of piercing emerald pools, that had suddenly come to him, rather than any real perception of their colour. After all, the only light illuminating the room came from a street lamp on the curb.

Harry relaxed his hands from their death grip on the sheets; these were the eyes that had brought him such comfort. Slowly, Harry slid out from under his blankets, his bare feet coming to rest on the floor before he stood and demanded, "Who are you? And how did you get into my room?"

Ж

Dean noticed that the slip of a boy standing before him definitely sounded more concerned with the latter of the questions. Dean thought that a more appropriate question to the situation would've been: _what do you want?_ Or maybe: _what are you doing here?_ Questions regarding intent were highly valued as primary operative questions when dealing with situations such as these, where one's life was in possible danger. For the most part, it was imperative that one only act after one had the facts straight. Or, straight enough. And after the stint with those philanthropic vampires and that asshole Gordon, Sam and Dean had always looked first to intent, before moving on to any of the other requisite questions they considered whilst on a Hunt.

Dean conceded, however, that the questions the boy had asked were ones any normal person would think to ask. He supposed that he might have simply been expecting this version of his Sammy to be at least a little stranger on the weird-o-meter.

Dean was glad, though, that some part of Sammy finally got to have a taste of the normal he had always so desired. Still, even _Dean _thought the locks on the windows were a bit much, not that they'd given him any difficulty. He supposed they might have something to do with the _criminally insane_ story the cat lady had pulled. Physical evidence to back up the lie, to support the supposition, maybe?

"What's your name?" Dean blurted out, suddenly, full of curiosity.

The boy responded almost automatically with a whispered, "Harry."

'_Harry_,' huh? He liked that. It didn't feel too different on his tongue. In fact, it was as if it held within it still some essence of 'Sammy'. He'd been worried that this Sammy, _Harry_, his mind prompted, would have some whacked name like, Gerald or… Patrick. Not that there was anything wrong with those names. They just didn't feel right. They didn't fit.

Dean shrugged a little. He was giving this way too much thought for it to be healthy. "So, just Harry?" He teased lightly, turning on the charm.

Dean could see Harry turn a little red at his tone, which made Dean grin ecstatically inside, though his face reflected nothing but genuine interest, which for Dean, right here, right now, honestly was not hard to display.

Dean watched carefully, eyes narrowing slightly at the way that Harry seemed to freeze as his brain caught up with the question. He spoke with that same slightly shaky voice.

"I'm Harry Potter," Harry said, seeming unconcerned by the fact that Dean had yet to answer either of his questions, though that would change soon enough.

Dean smiled blindingly, providing the first answer, one that would undoubtedly only lead to many more questions.

"Dean Winchester, at your service."

Ж

To Be Continued...

**

* * *

****Another Word from the Author:** As you no doubt have noticed, Harry is still in mourning over Sirius, which places this story at the end of Book 5's timeline. The reason for this being...? ...I haven't read Books 6 or 7... So yeah. It's an AU anyway what with Dean being there...! 


	5. Chapter V

**Word from the Author:** I feel I should **WARN** you, WATCH OUT FOR THE PoV CHANGES. It gets a little wacky, given that you'll be getting both Harry and Dean's perspectives on things, sometimes with **overlap**. So, if it's confusing, you have my deepest apologies! But, that's how it is.

That said, enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** As it stands in chapter 1.

**Chapter 5**

Ж

Dean watched as Harry's eyes flitted momentarily towards the trunk at the end of his bed. Dean wondered if Harry was in fact formulating some kind of plan of attack.

_Better safe than sorry_, Dean thought as he lifted his hands, placating, but also to assure Harry that he was unarmed.

Then again, in the Winchester handbook '_unarmed_' didn't exactly equate to '_not dangerous_,' but Dean didn't think that Harry really needed to know that. Not yet, anyway.

Dean smiled at Harry and said soothingly, "I know this is probably gonna sound weird to you, hell, maybe even a little _crazy_, but I'm here to help."

Dean had over the years gotten much better at reading people, part and parcel of having to deal with as many people freaking out as he has had to in the past. Despite the fact that the only literally visible response Harry deemed to give was a simple quirk of an eyebrow, Dean could practically see the wheels in Harry's head turning.

"Serious," Dean enthused and then wondered at the suddenly clenched jaw and narrowed eyes that Harry presented him with.

It was a moment more before Harry relaxed enough to comment, "Ok. I guess that explains how you got in here."

Dean looked at him, puzzled. What Dean didn't know however was that this place, which was more a prison than a safe house for Harry, had ancient blood wards that protected him. As far as Harry was aware the wards dealt with the intent of the intruders. It would hardly do, after all, if no one, at all, was allowed to enter onto the Dursley's property. If that were the case, it hardly seemed likely that they would have bothered to have taken him in in the first place. As such, it definitely appeared to Harry as though Dean were telling the truth.

They stared at each, intently, for quite some time before Dean finally broke the silence by not quite asking, "You're probably wondering what exactly I'm here to help with. What I want to…?"

Harry interrupted him abruptly, frowning whilst asking, "Do I know you from somewhere?"

Dean went to respond, only to find he wasn't quite sure what to say to that. Lucky for him Harry had already begun to answer his own question.

"No… I'm sure I'd have remembered you." At those words, Dean really did feel rather flattered. "But there's something…" Harry paused, "_familiar_ about you. I… I just can't quite put my finger on it."

Dean looked at Harry expectantly, wondering whether anything else might come to him, if that were even possible. Harry just shrugged, before continuing by saying, "Maybe it'd be best if you just told me what you wanted…"

Dean nodded thoughtfully, thinking to himself that he really should've thought a bit more about preparing some sort of explanation, especially seeing as he wasn't sure how well a cut and edited version of the events would go over. Dean decided that what he really wanted to do was to simply cut to the chase, and start this relationship completely truthfully. Unlike the horror that had been his tryst with Cassie, and then Sammy's reaction to the secret their Dad had left for Dean to bear, not to mention the fact that Dean had kept it from him as long as he had… Well, he wanted to do things right by Harry. And wasn't _that_ just a scary turn of phrase to be considering.

Ж

_It was really, really strange_, thought Harry. That even after everything he'd been through, he was still capable of putting so much trust into a stranger; one who had also broken into his room in the middle of the night. Harry shivered at the thought. When put like that, it sounded more like a secret assignation than a possible death threat. Harry startled a little to realize that Dean had started talking again.

"I'm not from around here," he said. "But I know there's something after you. And I'm going to stop it."

_Stop… it…? _Harry almost laughed out loud, incredulous at his words. _Him_ kill _Voldemort_? The ludicrousness of the statement made Harry want to bang his head against his wardrobe. The impossibility of Dean's claim didn't even take into account the fact that Harry was the only one who could do it. That it was either him or Voldemort, _neither could live while the other survived_…

Harry didn't say anything of his fears and insecurities, nor of the prophecy, as none but Harry's closest knew the truth. And though he thought that he might be able to trust Dean with his life, he wasn't sure he was willing to trust him enough to let him come into a place where he would see just how afraid of the future Harry was. Harry kept those feelings locked up inside him, deep down, at his core, right next to the fountain of despair that was everyday flooding over to taint his very existence just that little bit more.

_No_, these were not things he was ready to share, not with Dean, not with anyone.

So instead, he hid the depths of his vulnerable self behind a mask of mockery, snorting delicately as he demanded, "Oh? You and what army?"

"Who needs an army, when you've got the Colt," came Dean's blithe reply, barely a beat later, as if he were used to such banter.

"A colt?" Harry asked in confusion, his face shifting to show a rather perplexed expression. "You mean, like a horse?"

Harry felt his brow furrow as Dean groaned in what seemed to be frustration.

Ж

_Why couldn't Harry have inherited at least a little bit of hunting-know-how_,Dean pleaded of the heavens, his face turning upward to the threadbare ceiling of Harry's small room. _They were so totally screwed_. Dean exhaled slowly, as his eyes returned to Harry, measuring him up, trying to evaluate just how much would have to been done for Harry to be field-ready. Then again, Dean smiled slightly, if a little manically, if there was something other than slaying evil that Dean was good at, it was training.

Dean noticed as he continued studying Harry closely that Harry seemed to be getting increasingly uncomfortable. He was fidgeting almost compulsively, completely unable to keep still. Eventually he broke and said, "_What… Dean? What is it?_"

But for the pause before his name, Dean blinked at Harry blankly, for a second there… Harry had sounded exactly like Sammy. Pitch-perfect.

Dean cleared his throat, before gruffly saying, "Nothing. You just… you remind me of someone too." _Not a complete lie_, Dean assured himself.

Harry looked at him curiously before asking, "Who?"

Dean swallowed hard, unable to meet Harry's eyes. "It doesn't matter. He's gone now."

He could feel Harry's eyes boring into him. He could feel Harry's inquisitiveness, his thirst for answers, his need to _talk_ about things. In all these things, he was just like Sammy. And with that thought, he felt his resolve start to slip. Oh god, how he wanted to pour his soul out to this boy on the brink of manhood who sat before him. How he wanted to wrap his arms around him and take comfort in the sheer fact that Sammy existed in Harry and that Harry was now all that Dean had left.

But he didn't want to scare Harry away. Nor did he want to burden him with the depth of Dean's feelings. Already he could feel himself falling all over again.

What Dean said instead was, "Someday… I'll tell you all about it someday. But right now… I _can't_…" His voice wavered and threatened to break, so instead he met Harry's eyes with his own, and willed him to understand.

Harry, however, was already nodding. "Yeah… yeah, I get that…" He smiled weakly at Dean. "You were saying something about a horse…?" Harry tried to lighten the moment with a joke, but Dean found that Harry's tone sounded more bemused than anything.

Dean smiled at him nonetheless. Dean suspected the confused but semi-serious tone was probably on account of Harry still considering the fact that, since Dean hadn't exactly denied his enquiry beyond groaning loudly at him, it might very well be a horse to which Dean was referring.

"The Colt," Dean began conspiratorially. "Is a weapon of supreme power, forged for the precise purpose of ridding this world of evil. But, in essence, it's a gun; one that was made by the famous American inventor, Samuel Colt. As the story goes, he made it, and 13 bullets, to be used to purge the world of the unnatural. What's special about this gun though is that it can kill _anything_."

Harry was gazing at Dean with big eyes.

"And with it, we're going to kill what's after you," Dean concluded with relish.

Harry seemed to take a moment to digest this, before exclaiming in wonder, "You mean, it can kill Voldemort?"

Dean started to answer 'yes', before pausing and asking instead, "Who the fuck's Voldemort?"

"…The thing that's after me…" Harry replied hesitantly, looking at Dean as if Harry thought he was some kind of retard.

"You _named _it?" Dean asked incredulously.

"Wha–? No!" Harry cried indignantly, his cheeks reddening a little. "That's what _he_ calls _himself_! Everyone knows that!"

Dean stared some more, trying to reign in thoughts on how adorable, and _just like Sammy_, Harry looked when flushed in indignation, his lower lip jutting out slightly, before he added jokingly, "Looks like I missed the bulletin, or something."

Harry blinked at Dean slowly. "So… how exactly are you meant to be saving me when you don't even know what's after me?"

"I do so know what's after you!" Dean rebutted petulantly. "It's a Demon that killed your mother in your nursery on your 6th month birth-anniversary, and when I say that, I do indeed mean exactly 6 months to the day."

"What? That's…" Harry stopped and rubbed the back of his head as he contemplated Dean's words. "I think you might have the wrong guy," was all he said after some time.

"What makes you say that?" Dean asked, a little stumped by Harry's sudden tangent. He'd been expecting a little disbelief, shock, incredulity even. But, "you have the wrong guy"? No way, man. No way.

"Well," Harry started, "it's true that my mother died in my nursery. But it wasn't a Demon that killed her. It was Lord Voldemort, the darkest wizard of this age."

"A… what?"

"A wizard," Harry enunciated clearly.

"Sorry," Dean said, "I could have sworn… A _wizard_?"

"Yeah," Harry affirmed, eyes completely serious, "a wizard. Also, it wasn't 6th months. It was only 3. I was born on the 31st of July. My family died on the 31st of October, All Hallow's Eve."

"Family?"

"You… don't know about this? How could you not know about this?"

There was a long silence, and if Dean had looked up, he probably would have laughed at the near kaleidoscope of expressions that flitted across Harry's face. At first, it would have best been described as utter befuddlement that suffused it, followed by hopefulness, slight chagrin, deep contemplation and finally sheer disbelief. And if Harry hadn't been caught up in his own thoughts, he probably would have taken note of the deep furrow that had appeared between Dean's brows, the pensive look that made him appear far more serious than was usual for him.

At last, Dean found the words he'd been looking for, inadequate though they were. "It's… complicated, but for the most part, it's mainly to do with the fact that, like I said before, I'm not exactly from around here."

Ж

"Family?" Dean had echoed, seemingly dumbfounded by the thought.

"You," Harry paused, shocked by Dean's shock, "don't know about this?" He then continued in a voice filled with wonder, "How could you _not _know about this?"

Harry didn't think it was possible. _Everyone_ knew about him, Harry Potter, the boy-who-lived. Well, Harry amended mentally, everyone who had anything to do with the Wizarding world at least.

_Dean Winchester_… Harry savored the name in his thoughts. He didn't know why, but for some reason, it struck a chord deep within him; Dean Winchester, who claimed to have come to save him from the big, bad, evil Lord Voldemort. Harry knew that as far as the Wizarding world was concerned he was as much a fairy tale figure as Snow White, or Sleeping Beauty was to the Muggle community.

Harry paused in the beginning of his ruminations. _Did he just place cast himself in the role of the heroine? Or rather, the damsel in distress?_

Shrugging mentally, he acknowledged that he probably wasn't in a position too far removed, really. Parents killed by the evil monster trying to steal his kingdom, more or less, and rule the world. Being forced to live with his horrid relatives, to clean and do their bidding - if that wasn't _Cinderella_, Harry didn't know what was. Trapped in a world of oppression and darkness, not to mention _magic_, where a burden greater than should have ever been expected fell onto his admittedly slender shoulders. And true to the tales of old, the tragedy was laid on thick. Those he loved died, time and time again. What's more, it had seemed that soon he too would meet with such a fate. Now, however, it was as if Harry's Prince Charming had appeared, at long last, to sweep Harry off his feet.

Finally catching up with his own train of thoughts, the one currently getting pretty close to running off the lines, Harry felt his cheeks burn. _What was he thinking?_ He was a guy, and guys shouldn't be having other guys coming to their rescue and _sweeping them of their feet_. Right…?

Harry chided himself mentally. That wasn't the problem right now. The problem that needed to be dealt with was the one at hand. Even trying to keep his thoughts on what Dean had told him that seemed to run along the lines of Lord Voldemort actually being a _demon_, instead of your good old run-of-the-mill Wizard gone bad, Harry couldn't quite stamp down the ecstatic feeling that Dean didn't know of his fame, or any of the things that people had said about him. To start off with, he hadn't reacted in the least when Harry had announced who exactly he was, although Harry had thought it a little strange that the person searching for him had needed to ask for his name.

But nevertheless, it was at that moment that hope had sprung eternal within Harry. Maybe this stranger who'd stolen into his room this night was different, different to all those who'd pretended to help him, or who had even pretended to _want _to help him. Maybe, just maybe, this person would be one who would understand him, Harry, and accept him as he is, instead of as the poster boy for a golden era in the Wizarding world. Despite the fact that that age was now gone. It was the same feeling that he'd gotten when he'd discovered, and how long ago it seemed now looking back, that Sirius Black was not only his godfather, but had been for all that time innocent of that which he'd been accused. It was a feeling just like the one he'd experienced when Sirius had offered him a home, a _real _home. This feeling, in this moment, was just like the one he'd had when he'd thought he would finally be free…

Or better yet, maybe Dean knew all these things, but _didn't care_! Harry thought to himself excitedly, before he damped the excitement down within himself. It didn't seem likely that Dean knew, however, after seeing how he'd reacted to the simple fact that all of Harry's family had died that night. So, there was no reason to get his hopes up in that aspect.

Harry thought about it a bit more. Maybe American wizards just didn't know much about British ones. After all, Harry himself knew next to nothing of Wizarding communities outside of Britain. His knowledge of those in France and other parts of Europe were limited to the fact that Harry knew that they had schools for witchcraft and wizardry. Other than that, even what he knew of the Wizarding world outside of even Hogwarts would probably have been considered as being pitiful at best.

For the most part, Lord Voldemort seemed to be the Wizarding world's equivalent of Hitler, whom Harry had learnt a bit about from those history books he'd loved to read when he was younger. That was before Hogwarts, when he'd still been allowed to be seen in the presence of the Dursleys, so long as he'd kept to the old adage that children would only be seen if they were heard. Silence and an unassuming slouch had made him near invisible next to Dudley. Although, maybe it was the simple fact that Harry could hide himself entirely behind Dudley's, even then, huge body mass.

As he had been thinking, the focus for both of them had been Europe. A somewhat shallow score in terms of world domination, Harry thought. But then again, Harry wasn't sure whether America would have been considered enough of a threat, or even worth enough back in those days, for either of the power hungry maniacs to have thought to stretch their reach that far.

Nonetheless, in the Muggle world at least, America seemed to hold a big role, and Harry could only assume that there would be some form on institute there, to train and raise witches and wizards as there was here.

_Wait_, Harry thought. _Dean… He should be old enough to be a fully qualified wizard already. And if so, then where had his wand been when he'd gotten into Harry's room through the locked window?_ Harry didn't think he'd have the time to put it away, if he were to manage both some sort of levitating charm, as well as an _alohomora_. And if he'd been levitating, then… why would he have tripped?

Dean couldn't be… He couldn't possibly be… a _Muggle_?! Not knowing anything about Voldemort, or who Harry himself was, and not using magic to his convenience… That could only mean, as far as all the facts seemed to be concerned, that Dean wasn't actually a wizard like Harry had simply presumed.

When Dean had shown his utter surprise at the fact that Harry's family had been killed by a _wizard_, Harry had assumed that Dean was simply being excessively philanthropic, that's to say that he was simply believing in the innate goodness of humanity. Harry had thought that his _dis_belief, when Harry had told him that it had been a Dark wizard that had killed his family, had come from the fact that Dean didn't think it was possible for a _fellow_ wizard to have done such a thing. Harry hadn't realized, until now, that what had been in question was the _existence_ of the magical population as a whole.

Harry's eyes widened further still. That meant… Dean probably wouldn't have made the connection that _Harry _was a wizard!

Lost in his thoughts, Harry jerked slightly when Dean suddenly started speaking once more.

"It's," Dean coughed slightly, "complicated, but for the most part, it's mainly to do with the fact that, like I said before, I'm not exactly from around here."

For some reason the fact that Dean didn't know that Harry was a wizard, probably didn't know anything at all about the Wizarding world, made Harry tingle. The prospect of being given the opportunity to become friends with Dean, _hopefully_, Harry wished wholeheartedly, and to be able to surprise and amaze him with the use of magic somehow made Harry really happy. For some inexplicable reason, Harry was overcome with the urge to make Dean smile for him, euh, at him, that is.

As such, Harry felt his eyes prickle; he was that euphoric at the thought. He sobered quickly though, when he realized that Dean probably wanted further explanation regarding Harry's situation.

"My father died trying to protect us from Voldemort." Harry lowered his voice. "I hear it sometimes," he confided. "My mother dying and Voldemort killing her. She hadn't needed to die. Voldemort might have let her go, if she'd just given me to him."

Ever since Harry found out what had really happened, had been told, after so long, the truth of his past, he'd always wondered whether it wouldn't have been better if he'd died instead of his mother. If she'd lived, she could have had other children. Children that wouldn't have grown up to be the reason why other people had to die.

"Don't be _stupid_," Dean's voice cut sharply through Harry's less than happy thoughts.

Harry looked at Dean, surprised at his harsh tone, as well as at the sudden twinge of pain that struck him. He suddenly felt like rubbing at the skin beneath his breastbone, to ease the oddly sharp prickle he felt there. Realizing that what he was feeling was probably shining from his face for all the world to see, Harry quickly stamped down the feeling. He didn't want to embarrass Dean, who didn't seem to be type to want to have _emotions_ and the like thrown at him.

Even as he did so, he felt his body relax its previous tension. Harry found himself suddenly sitting. Clenching his fingers even as his arms fell weak at his sides, Harry let his chin drop forward, to help hide anything that he might've missed. Harry knew that he was an emotional sort, one who had a tendency to angst.

_No need to be burdening him with your emotional baggage, Harry_, he scolded himself. After all, Dean was just here to help. Nothing more.

Then suddenly, there were warm, strong fingers stroking against his chin, tilting his head back up. Harry found himself gazing up into Dean's emerald speckled eyes.

"I'm sorry," Dean was saying. "I'm sorry that you had to go through that. I'm guessing you don't have any siblings."

Harry thought he could hear a question in that last statement, so he quickly nodded his agreement.

Dean released Harry from his hold, leaving Harry feeling bereft. Harry sighed deeply in relief as that warm, gentle hand returned, this time brushing itself through Harry's unruly hair. Despite how much he hated people making a fuss about his hair, with Dean, like this, Harry found himself hoping that his hair would never behave. If only so that Dean would never have reason to stop trying to tame it.

Harry wondered at his strange thoughts. He didn't think this was like him, but he wasn't sure. He'd never really been given to self-analysis, except in the context of guilt, hurt and anger. And even then, a lot of it had been him trying to stop himself from thinking, which for the most part always ended up being impossible to avoid.

Dean's voice made Harry feel so calm and the feeling of familiarity struck him again, a hundredfold. If only he could place where he'd heard this voice before…

But Dean was apologizing again. "I'm sorry," he repeated. "I didn't mean to snap. But I guess that's something you never really got to learn. You see, Harry," Dean's voice carried in the darkness, despite its softness, and it captured Harry's attention so fully that all he could hear was its dulcet tones flowing into him, on top of Harry's own thundering heart beat.

"Family, _real family_, are the people you'd die for."

Ж

Harry's eyes seemed to have taken on a strangely luminescent gleam. He looked even slightly happy, which felt down right weird given that the next words that left his mouth were, "My father died trying to protect us, my mum and me, from Voldemort." The gleam lessened a little. "I hear it sometimes," Harry whispered, voice slow but smooth. "My mother dying and Voldemort killing her. She hadn't needed to die. Voldemort might have let her go, if she'd just given me to him." Harry told Dean earnestly.

"Don't be _stupid_," Dean spat, sharper than he'd intended.

Harry looked at Dean in surprise at his harsh tone, a slight look of hurt slithering across his features, before it was quickly stamped down.

Realizing he'd just done precisely what he'd promised himself never to do, that is, hurt Harry's feelings, Dean took a deep breath before moving to stand in front of Harry where he had sat on his bed, arms limp at his side, head drooping forwards.

Gently Dean smoothed calloused fingers under Harry's chin, lifting his downcast face towards him. "I'm sorry." Dean apologized, for more than he could ever say. "I'm sorry that you had to go through that. I'm guessing you don't have any siblings."

At the slightly questioning tone in Dean's voice, Harry nodded jerkily.

Dean let go his hold, instead moving his hand in a futile attempt to smooth down Harry's disheveled chocolate tresses. Then again, Dean found he liked Harry's hair like this, it would provide him a good excuse to be able touch Harry as often as he pleased.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I didn't mean to snap. I guess that's something you never really got to learn…"

At Harry's shyly inquisitive look, Dean continued, "You see, Harry…" Dean began, speaking softly, trying to put all his feelings, all that he knew about love, family and protection, into words. Something he rarely did. But also something he thought Harry needed. And Dean wasn't going to make the same mistakes twice. If Harry needed things to be said, Dean would say them. Dignity and pride, masculine ego or whatever you wanted to call it, be damned.

"Family, _real family_, are the people you'd die for. The people you'd give _anything_ to see happy. The people you fight for, who you sacrifice for," Dean felt his throat tightening as he remembered all that had been sacrificed so that _he_ could live, and he tried to put as much of that into these words as he could. "It hurts to be left behind. And it can make you _so angry_. Sometimes at them, sometimes at yourself. Sometimes at anyone who's easy enough for you to blame. But the truth is you'd have done the same for them. Because you loved them as much as they loved you. But that's also why you have to live, Harry. For those who are lost, we live. We go on, and we do what's gotta be done. So that at the end of the day, we won't forget."

Ж

Harry's eyes fell close at Dean's words. _Sirius_, Harry thought, heart clenching at the memory of his beloved godfather falling, falling, falling, through the Veil and into never-ending darkness.

"The people you'd give _anything_ to see happy. The people you fight for, who you sacrifice for." Harry felt himself start to shake, as if he couldn't control this trembling that started somewhere deep inside him. Dean's hand tightened its hold, and Harry felt anchored by it as Dean continued speaking, and Harry could do nothing but listen.

"It hurts," Harry swallowed tightly in agreement at this, "to be left behind. It makes you _so angry_."

Harry almost laughed at that. He wasn't sure anger was enough to describe it, wasn't sure it quite encompassed the scope of his emotions. Hell, half the time, Harry wasn't even sure who he was mad with…

Dean's words seemed to mirror Harry's thoughts exactly, "Sometimes at them, sometimes at yourself. Sometimes at anyone who's easy enough for you to blame."

Harry found himself nodding, his head jostling Dean's hand that was still resting in his hair.

"But the truth is you'd have done the same for them. That's why you have to live. For those who are lost, we live, Harry. We go on, and we do what's gotta be done. So that at the end of the day, we won't forget."

Harry could hear it. He didn't know how, but something in Dean's voice told him that he was speaking as much to Harry as he was to himself. He recalled then that Dean had said Harry reminded him of someone. And that that someone was… gone. Harry felt his heart break a little. Who could have meant so much to Dean that their leaving could have stained Dean's voice with this much anguish?

Harry shifted uneasily as he felt himself almost overcome by the urge to hug Dean. He felt awkward at the inappropriateness of the thought. After all, Harry had known him for what? An hour, now? Maybe more. Harry realized that he'd lost track of the time. That still didn't excuse his thoughts.

_They're just thoughts_, some insidious little voice in the back of Harry's mind whispered to him. _Thinking about things never hurt anyone…_

Harry shook his head to clear his thoughts, and wished he hadn't as Dean removed his hand from where it had remained this entire time. However, he asked in a concerned tone of voice, "Are you ok?"

And Harry was quick to reassure him, "Yeah! I…"

Dean crouched at that, his voice overly serious, but his eyes seemed to glint in good humour, "You know, Harry…"

Harry shifted his eyes nervously, unsure as to where he should be looking, before they finally come into contact, and locked with Dean's. "W-what?"

"It's ok to cry," Dean deadpanned, grinning at him madly.

Harry snorted loudly, as he dried eyes that had suddenly felt the need to go watery on him.

"Thatta boy," Dean exclaimed in a much more cheerful tone of voice, as he stood and stretched a little.

Harry managed to dredge up a smile at that.

"So… the thing I'm after is a wizard, you say …?" Dean summarized, a look of mild disbelief gracing his face.

"Hey," Harry protested weakly, "it doesn't sound any weirder than your demon theory."

"Huh. You've… actually got a point there."

In an even more exaggerated accent than his was usually, Harry stated coolly, "No shite, Sherlock."

Dean blinked at Harry, endearingly, hand almost automatically seeming to move towards the back of his head. The expression on Dean's face made Harry want to grin at him broadly, but somehow he managed to contain himself.

"Hold it," Dean exclaimed suddenly, appearing to only now realize something. "Your accent… is a little strange. Even normally."

Harry snorted his thanks at that, and wondered if his nasal cavities would survive him having met Dean. Harry couldn't say he'd snorted all that much in his life, but for the time being, it seemed to be becoming a common occurrence.

"And the same goes for a whole bunch of other people I talked to yesterday too," Dean declared emphatically.

"Actually," Harry smoothly stated, "I'm pretty sure your accent's a lot less common here than mine would be. I might spend a good deal of time in Scotland but I'm still British."

Dean's widened to an enormous size, the words seeming to slip out as he exhaled. "You're a _Brit!?_"

Ж

"You're a _Brit!?_" Dean found himself exclaiming, rocking back on his heels a little, but not exactly sure what was so surprising about the fact. Maybe just, Sammy? A Brit? Dean felt a smile begin to tug at his lips. It wasn't that Dean was racist or anything, it's just that it was... kind of funny, in an ironic sort of way, in Dean's humble opinion. Except for the fact that Dean would have so totally managed the 'stiff upper lip' gig a billion times better than Sam could have. Then again, the same probably held true for Harry.

Dean saw Harry frown at his tone, before he replied evenly, "…And you're an American."

Dean just grinned in response, "Yeah, that's generally what people are in America. Kind of like a default nationality."

"I'd expect so," Harry agreed, looking vaguely amused, "only, you're on my turf now."

Dean's eyes narrowed minutely, "Are you _mocking_ me?"

Harry blinked, "Whatever gave you that impression?" He so enquired with an air of innocence.

"For one," Dean pointed out, "since when do Brits use the word 'turf'?"

"Since now," Harry replied smugly.

Dean felt a slight twinge at the Sam-like reply, delivered with a Sam-like smugness, before pausing a second to consider the conversation thus far. "I'm in fucking _England?!_"

Harry looked at him a little strangely, before he demanded, his voice full of curiosity, "Where on Earth did you think you were? Or rather, again, how could you _not _know that you were in England?"

"It was just a little unexpected, is all!" Dean exclaimed, taking note that his voice sounded a little more panicked and squeaky than normal, not to mention louder.

A strange gurgling growl sounded from somewhere outside Harry's door.

"Shhh!" Harry hissed urgently. "You'll wake the beast!"

Quieter, but not lacking in intensity, Dean hissed back in an entirely serious tone of voice, with an entirely too serious facial expression, eyes narrowed, "What kind of beast?"

Harry barked out a surprised laugh in response, before remembering his own warning. He smiled slightly, "Sorry, _metaphorical _beast. My uncle Vernon. He'd probably kill us both if he found you in here."

"Afraid I might be trying to make away with your virtue?" Dean teased. Even in the dark, Dean saw Harry blush, and merely raised his eyebrows in response.

Harry coughed lightly into his hand as he tried to dim the lights in his cheeks, "It's more to the fact that he hates our kind," Harry paused, before admitting, "Calls us freaks."

Dean just grinned at Harry, while Harry looked at him suspiciously. Dean gave a happy sigh. It was amazing how Harry, just like Sammy would leave himself wide open to verbal barbs. In a voice full of levity he delivered his punch line. "But you've always been a freak."

Some of the light that had been gradually building in Harry's eyes since Dean had gotten there, and had gotten him to relax, seemed to go out the instant the words left Dean's mouth. All of a sudden Harry looked both a lot older and a lot younger than he ought to.

Dean blinked. Apparently Harry didn't yet possess Sammy's tolerance for Dean's immaturity. "Awkward," Dean muttered before squatting once again, in front of Harry, to try and look into eyes that were currently fixed on the floorboards.

"Hey," Dean said affectionately, while mentally cringing at the way his voice seemed to be way softer than he'd heard it in a long while, "that was meant to be a joke."

Harry looked at him then; with soulful puppy dog eyes he'd never thought he'd see again, before softly mumbling, "Well, it wasn't funny..."

Dean sighed again, this time directing a look full of remorse at Harry, that for some reason made Harry feel like melting, just a little. "Yeah, I figured. A little late though. But. I'll try to keep my crappy jokes to a minimum from now on. Promise." With that pledge Dean crossed his heart, and hoped to die, 'cos he'd sooner do so than hurt Harry.

This made Harry give him this unspeakably adorable half-grin, and Dean couldn't help but think that _damn, was he gonna end up a big, old softie or what?_

Glancing at his watch, Dean was surprised to realize just how much time had passed since his breaking and entering, and made a quick decision that he'd best be going before he outstayed his welcome.

"I'll come see you tomorrow," he said somewhat abruptly. "Get some sleep." With that he stood and moved towards his means of escape.

Harry however seemed a little surprised at the sudden declaration of departure, and cried out in a slightly panicked voice, "Wait!"

Dean paused on his way to the window, turning and looking at Harry questioningly. "What?"

Harry looked at Dean shyly, suddenly feeling strangely uncertain. "When will you be back?" He asked, the barest note of desperation colouring his tone.

"Around the same time tomorrow night. If that's all right with you." At Harry's emphatic nod, Dean smiled. It felt as though his face ached just a little because of his doing so. He supposed it might have been from disuse of the corresponding muscle control faculties for something as simple as a smile. _Haven't had much to smile about lately_, he thought to himself. A voice that sounded oddly like Sam's whispered through Dean's mind in reply, _Looks like things are about to change._

Ж

Even though Harry had seen Dean glance at his watch, and the look of astonishment that flitted across his face, it still came as a surprise when he stood abruptly, informing Harry that he'd see him tomorrow, and instructing him to 'get some sleep'.

Unsure as to what made him do so, Harry cried out, voice shaking slightly at the inexplicable surge of panic he felt at seeing Dean leave him. "_Wait!_"

Dean paused on his way to the window and turned to tilt his head at Harry, enquiringly. "What?" Dean asked, voice gentle.

Harry looked at Dean shyly, and again wondered at these sudden emotions besieging him. _There was no reason to feel shy! _Even after mentally assuring himself of this fact, Harry still couldn't seem to contain the feeling. "When will you be back?" He asked, and he could hear it himself, the barest note of the desperation that he was feeling seeping through and soaking into his voice as it carried across his barely lit bedroom.

"Around the same time tomorrow night. If that's all right with you," came Dean's reply.

Harry found himself suddenly incapable of forming words, let alone sentences, and so he simply nodded emphatically in response.

Dean smiled, and Harry was struck by how painfully sad it seemed, despite its undeniable beauty. Silence settled between them a moment, until Dean's voice reached out hesitantly, "Harry…"

Harry shivered at the sound of his name carried by that voice.

"I want you to think about this. For when I come back to see you tomorrow."

Harry looked at Dean expectantly, wondering whether words were needed of him right now, and if so, whether he would actually be able to form them.

"If you want, and I mean, it's ok if you don't, just so you know, but like, no pressure or anything like that, right," Dean blurted out in a rush, before calming himself enough to say after a deep breath. "I'd like to take you with me."

Harry felt his heart start to pound at the offer.

"I want to protect you," Dean proclaimed sincerely. "And I _will_, if you give me the chance." Dean's words, in that moment, held more finality than any promise Harry had ever had sworn to him. Harry decided then, _Nope, definitely unable to speak words right now_.

That being said, Dean turned to continue on his way.

It was probably Harry's utter inability to form words at the moment and as such the silence that he was guarding at the time, that granted him this new knowledge, the importance of which Harry would not realize for quite some time to come. This knowledge, so to speak, came in the form of the words Dean spoke just before he left. They were so quiet that Harry almost missed them, and undoubtedly would have, had he managed to speak up in response to Dean's declaration.

Even so, despite their softness, these words seemed to reverberate through the now seemingly empty room, etching themselves into Harry's mind; their conviction and their sorrow.

"I'll definitely save you, this time."

Ж

To Be Continued...

**

* * *

****Another Word from the Author:** Is it me or are these things getting longer and longer each time... Oo... Oh well, please do review, I very much look forward to hearing what you guys all think! Kamikumai. 


	6. Chapter VI

**Word from the Author:** This chapter is pretty much about Harry and Dean as individuals. Hope you guys like. If you do, feel free to let me know, if you don't, feel free to do the same...!

Also, my apologies, part of why this is late is explained at the end of the chapter... But freaking hell, the connection kept timing out ALL yesterday. I swear I tried to upload this at least 20 times. Just so you know.

Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** As it stands in chapter 1.

**Chapter 6**

Ж

Sleep was a long time coming for Harry, as he lay awake in bed, thinking about the mysterious individual who had, this very night, slipped so smoothly into his life and into his mind but a few hours earlier.

He'd offered to take Harry with him. And even knowing next to nothing about Dean, or what going with him would entail, Harry felt compelled to say yes. This was the chance he'd been waiting for. To escape, to be _free_, of the Dursleys, _and _in the long run, if Dean was to be believed, which Harry truly thought he was, of Voldemort too.

Even as Dean had made a quick exit, Harry had watched him leave and had squirmed. He couldn't help but notice how incredibly good looking his purported hero was, not to mention his drawling accent, which had sounded positively indecent to Harry's ears.

Harry could honestly say that he hadn't spent a lot of time thinking about love, sex or girls, what with trying not to die, or be killed, sustain grievous bodily harm or even just go insane, sometimes simply because of the fickleness of the Wizarding world at large, as far as he,_ Harry Potter_, was concerned.

Right now, though, Harry found himself worried most about the third of the sacred three. Girls. He was a little concerned because, well, in truth, he was afraid that they mightn't actually _do _anything for him. The word '_wet_' resounded loudly in his mind and he cringed at the sum total of his forays, which in fact should more aptly be left in the singular, into manhood.

His meeting with Dean only seemed to lean towards reinforcing this uncertainty. Harry sighed, partially in delight and partially with dread. He was pretty sure he could feel the beginnings of a major crush developing. He only hoped that this time it would bring neither a speech impediment nor a general lack of co-ordination with it.

Harry sighed again, this time deeper. Who was he trying to kid? There was no way someone like Dean would be interested in _that_ way, in someone like him.

Harry knew well that he was a little on the thin side, with his knobbly knees, and somewhat gangly limbs for all his shortness. His hair was a complete mess, and his glasses were incredibly boyish, though Harry had never really thought to change them before this moment. They'd always been a part of him, attached to him, perched upon his nose as they always were.

Dean Winchester, on the other hand, wasn't notably tall, but he wasn't particularly short either. His build was that of a man, and probably one who wasn't unfamiliar with physical labor. His hands had been strong and warm. His hair perfectly set, short and neat, but still a rich enticing colour. And his eyes, Harry tried to imagine him with glasses, and found it wasn't too hard. Harry thought he'd look intelligent and maybe a bit bookish but probably also, in compensation, unspeakably cute. But as he was, that is to say sans glasses, those gorgeous eyes were left bare for the world to admire. They were in fact the kind Harry would have expected to have found a particularly beautiful girl. And yet, they didn't make Dean seem girly at all. On the contrary, they simply seemed to enhance the raw masculinity of his face. The same way his lips did. Not that Harry had spent much time looking at his lips…

Harry cringed at his sudden obsession with the man's lips. Harry hadn't really ever thought too deeply about guys before, not in _that_ way. Still, Harry thought he knew enough to be able to tell what would be considered good and what not. And from all angles, all things considered, he had to say that Dean Winchester was _all good_; Harry simply couldn't find fault.

In fact, Dean Winchester was probably the best looking guy Harry had ever seen in his life. There were few other contenders for the position in Harry's opinion. And even then, there were major pitfalls in thinking about those contenders anyway. There had been Cedric Diggory, but Harry could barely bear to think about him at all, let alone in any way that might have once resembled infatuation, and the young Tom Riddle who'd appeared from that old diary? Well, despite his youthful attractiveness, just thinking about where that road had ended was enough to make Harry nauseous.

And then there was Draco Malfoy, who for all that Harry loathed him, was still inordinately beautiful, especially for a guy. Harry also reckoned that Charlie Weasley wasn't too bad either. In fact, he reminded Harry of Dean quite a bit.

Harry paused with that thought.

Hadn't he known Charlie for far longer than he'd known Dean? Shouldn't it have been Dean that reminded Harry of Charlie, and not the other way round?

Shrugging mentally, he reran through his reasoning to retake his place in his thoughts. _Ah, that's right._

Harry reasoned to himself that since Ron was like a brother to him that made the Weasleys too much like what Harry thought a family might be like, for him to be thinking of _any _of them in that way.

Realizing the ease to which he was thinking about such things, Harry felt his face burn. Only, Harry didn't quite think it was embarrassment that was making him flush so.

He was thinking about _guys_, for goodness sake's!

And scarily enough, it was a hell of a lot easier to contemplate than any time he'd tried to think about girls.

Harry kicked his blanket off, before rolling onto his stomach and smothering his face into his bed, pillow firmly attached to his head in the suffocating position, as he came to a sudden epiphany.

_Oh god_, Harry thought in horror. _I…I think I like boys_.

He felt himself twitch at the thought, and not in a bad way.

But this was bad. Really bad. People didn't like people who liked people who were the same sex as them. He himself had often been called fag or queer, as well as other derogative gay terms, by Dudley and his gang when he was younger. He'd also heard Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon discussing in disgusted voices the thought of homosexual rights. _Unnatural freaks_, they'd hiss and mutter in revolted tones.

'_But you've always been a freak,_' Dean's voice came back to haunt him.

_What if Dean could tell? Just by looking at him? Was that why he'd said that?_ Harry could feel the paranoia welling inside him.

"Shit," he muttered darkly into his lumpy mattress. He rolled back onto his back, staring blankly up at his off-white ceiling. There was no point in going back to sleep. He'd soon have to get up and to start the chores anyway.

Harry shut his eyes tightly.

He really should be thinking more about Dean's offer. _But ARGH! Why did even that sound sexual to him right now?!_

Harry sighed deeply, covering his eyes with his right hand, his left now neatly tucked under his head. It was as if Dean had become some sort of catalyst for Harry's hormonal development, making it want to suddenly catch up with him, and maybe even run him over while it was at it.

Taking a deep breath, Harry forced himself to be serious about this. He thought to himself, _it's not like there's any reason for me to refuse, and it's not like there's any reason for me not to want to go._

_Though there might be a few reasons why you've certainly become _eager_ to follow him, aren't there?_ His conscience nagged at him.

Harry squashed the thought. It wasn't about that. Ok, so maybe if Dean had been a creepy, ugly, old guy, Harry would have been less inclined to go. But he wasn't, and if anything, the short time he'd spent in Dean's company had been the most relaxed Harry had felt in years. He'd felt as if he could be himself. Or, that he would be, once Harry made sure that Dean knew he was a wizard.

In any case, going with Dean was an infinitely better choice, if you really wanted to call it a choice, than staying here at the Dursleys'.

Despite the fact that Harry was already technically a legal adult, his special status as the Boy Who Lived seemed to imply some level of immaturity in the eyes of the Wizarding community. After all, it's not like he was to be called the 'Man Who Lived'… Well, not until he defeated Voldemort _again_, that is. Harry could imagine it now, _The Boy Who Lived has at long last become, to the utter euphoria of the Wizarding World as a whole, the Man Who Lived!_

_Egads_, and wasn't that a scary thought.

Still, even though he was now allowed to cast magic outside of Hogwarts under Wizarding law, there was little he could do without his wand. And what a conundrum that was. Uncle Vernon had locked it, along with the majority of his related memorabilia, inside his trunk. And so, barring theft, either of the keys to the trunk which were forever attached to Uncle Vernon in some manner or other, or of some of Uncle Vernon's power tools, which would hardly be the most inconspicuous plan Harry could think up, the only way to break the lock would be if Harry had his wand. Which was in the trunk.

If Harry had in fact been in possession of his wand, he'd have left as soon as he could. Expectations of the Wizarding World be damned. For all the alleged protection this place was meant to offer, Harry figured it would do little good if it kept him physically safe but robbed him of his personality, his very essence of character. Somehow, for as long as he'd been here, he'd managed to remain intact; himself.

Lucky for him, just as he'd found himself slipping, Dean had appeared, becoming his own personal savior in more ways than he could've imagined. Another good thing about Dean was that although he obviously wasn't a Wizard, he apparently had some interesting skills, lock picking evidently one of them given how easily he'd managed to get past the ones which bolted Harry's window shut, so at least when Dean got him out of here, Harry would be able to access all the material possessions that made him, well, him.

_When Dean got him out of here_.

Harry smiled. It seemed as if Harry's mind had made his decision for him. At least now he would be able to give Dean his answer when he returned. Harry could feel a strong rush of excitement at the thought of seeing Dean again. Somehow it seemed both too soon but at the same time a time too far away to bear.

_All you have to do is get through this day, and then everything you've ever wished for will be coming true_.

Harry was surprised to find that the voice sounded like Sirius. And in that moment he was so completely grateful that he had met Dean, if only because for the first time since Sirius had been stolen away from him, he was able to think about Sirius and smile.

_We go on, and we do what's gotta be done. So that at the end of the day, we won't forget._

Yes, Harry was so very glad to have met Dean.

Ж

Dean was so very glad he'd gotten out of there when he had. A few moments more and God knows what he might've done. Actually, scratch that, Dean knew exactly what he would have done. He would have grabbed Harry into a big, bear hug, tossed him over his shoulder and made off with him into the night, as he'd been feeling the urge to do ever since he'd laid eyes on him.

_Bad Dean_, he scolded himself. _Under no circumstances are you to take advantage of his _utter _cuteness. He trusts you, and you are not to give him any reason not to. Or else._

With that mantra playing in his mind, Dean pulled up into the parking lot of the motel, inn thing, whatever and made a B-line for his room.

Inside, first stop, shower. The sheer inappropriateness of what Dean intended to do gnawed at him, even as he desperately stripped and headed into the bathroom.

He couldn't hold it off anymore; hell, he'd even smelt the same as Sammy.

_Only he's what? 16, 17 years old, tops?_ Dean's conscience whispered condemningly.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm a pervert," Dean muttered to himself resentfully, as he flicked the shower taps to his preferred temperature.

Stepping under the shower he moaned. He needed this. As they say, prevention's better than a cure. And damn, if he didn't need to prevent this from happening if Harry were actually to spend any amount of time in his company.

Eyes shut tight, images of Harry merged with memories of Sam, even as the feelings evoked by them both blended and grew. Dean wasn't sure how he was going to survive this. The raw desire, to take and possess. To claim. Because now that he'd found him, Harry was _his_.

And there was no way in _hell_ that he was going to let him go, let him slip through fingers that had tried so hard to hold them together. Not again.

Stroking firmly and steadily, Dean undressed him within his mind's eye, letting those rounded glasses stay where they were, now slightly askew upon that sweetly innocent face. All the while Dean imagined himself drowning in that deep, intense gaze, which was somehow amplified by the glasses rather than diminished by them.

In his mind, he saw himself, strengthening the hold of one of Harry's hands on himself, showing Harry how to please him. He tightened his grip.

Through slightly fogged lenses, those greens eyes gazed up at him in awe and saw nothing but him.

_Just like they were meant to_, he thought possessively.

The fantasy Harry moaned at the feel of Dean in his hand, even as Dean imagined himself bringing them together, hot skin against hot silken skin, his lips skimming gently over Harry's, tasting and devouring all the delicious sounds and exhalations Harry offered him.

He'd noticed earlier the odd scar on Harry's forehead that Dean rather thought resembled a plain script _N_. As he saw in his fantasy Harry's climax building in his eyes, Dean relinquished his mouth's hold on Harry's in order to tongue his scar; as if by doing so, he would somehow be able to diminish the pain of its infliction, regardless of its age.

As soon as his tongue brushed against the slightly reddened tissue, Harry cried out, his voice pleading, as if what he was feeling was too much for him to bear.

At the simple sound his mind provided him, of what Dean imagined to be Harry's first orgasm at the hand of another, and if not the first, then assuredly the best, Dean himself threw his head back, all that managed to escape him being a throaty, "_Ha—_" before he swallowed the rest of the word. His muscles tensed as his pleasure flowed freely, its presence washed away by the gradually cooling water.

Feeling inexplicably weak, Dean leaned against the freezing tiles of his shower wall, wondering if he would ever be strong again.

Ж

Harry's day started with little difference to the routine that had been established in those which preceded it. The only thing that one could consider different about this day, unlike any other, was the fact that Harry now had much to look forward to.

Harry only wished he had a time turner. Then again, he wasn't even sure whether it could be used to send one's self forward in time. You'd think that'd be a good use for it, seeing as you wouldn't have any problems with encountering yourself, given that for whatever period of time you decided to move forward, you simply wouldn't exist. Though, that alone was even conceptually a little daunting, if not potentially risky… _More so than having two of yourself occupying the same dimensions of space and time?_

Harry supposed not. Yawning widely from the lack of sleep, not that his body wasn't already semi-used to it given the previous frequency of nightmares, visions and attempts upon his person, Harry decided to beg off on any complex thought for the time being. Perhaps, though, a shower was in order to keep him awake. The only problem Harry had with this was that, if he showered now, he wouldn't be able to take one later, after he'd finished all his chores. And surely by that time, he'd be rather sweaty, which Harry really would prefer to avoid being if Dean was coming to get him _tonight_. Though, if he could just keep a little distance until Dean unlocked his trun–

Harry suddenly found himself understanding Dobby and his compulsion to want to hit himself on the head with Harry's cupboard door. _Why hadn't he gotten Dean to unlock the bloody trunk the night __**before**__?! Harry, you pillock!_

Kicking himself, metaphorically, at least for the time being, Harry morosely sighed at his utter idiocy. Then again, it was obvious he'd been quite distracted last night, no arguments to be had there.

Luckily for Harry, the shock of his unwitting stupidity seemed to have woken him up nicely, which at least meant that he would now be able to save that shower for this evening instead.

Pleased, Harry headed to the bathroom to brush his teeth and simply wash his face, and hopefully any residue of sleepiness off with it. Rinsing and spitting, Harry examined his reflection in the pristine mirror.

Harry supposed that he was alright looking, his eyes probably being his most attractive feature, or more to the point probably his most striking. Barring his lightning bolt scar, that is. Not that Harry himself could see any particular attractiveness to be found there. Still, it never ceased to draw attention to him, in all its hideous glory.

Harry's expression took on a startled tinge to it when he realized he had been scowling at himself intensely, only to be taken over by a sheepish look as he gargled and then proceeded to wash his face.

Wiping his face dry with a small face towel, Harry smoothed a hand over the flushed skin of his cheek. Despite the fact that he was now, for all legal intents and purposes, an adult in the Wizarding World, there still wasn't even the slightest sign of stubble to be found, and subsequently no need to shave. In some ways, it was probably a good thing, a convenience if you will, especially given the fact that Harry wasn't the most chipper of blokes come morning. He had however, due to the strict regiment of the Dursleys' household, been trained into extreme early morning habits.

In fact, it was one of his greatest pleasures when he'd first gone to Hogwarts, the joy of actually being able to _sleep in_. As the years went by though, Harry realized, he'd stopped appreciating the luxury, and instead had become accustomed to it, to the extent that it made going back to the routines set by Aunt Petunia seem even more horrific by comparison.

Stretching once more, Harry decided firmly that that was another train of thought he need no longer explore. After all, by tonight, whatever went on in the Dursley household would no longer be of any concern, whatsoever, at least as far as he was concerned.

Grinning happily at the thought, Harry quietly went downstairs to get started on the real work. _Just this one day more…_

Ж

After the little tête-à-tête, though perhaps it would be more accurate to refer to it as a main-à-tête, that Dean had held with himself, he'd flopped onto the impressively comfortable bed in his motel room. Languidly he lounged staring up at the plain ceiling that was, in Dean's opinion, surprisingly clean. All things considered, England sure had its perks by way of accommodation.

His shower-time activities had left him feeling boneless, and as he let his mind wander, Dean felt himself sink further into the plump mattress upon which he lay. Barely a few moments later, he drifted off into a deep sleep.

The night too seemed to be dreaming, soft, gentle dreams, as nary a sound could be heard. There was peace and calm to be found here, something that it would seem Dean was in desperate need of. Not that he was awake to know it though. The quiet hours of the deep night drifted by.

The sun dawned and peaked and rose to its zenith, but still Dean slumbered on. It wasn't until the day was starting to cool once more that Dean finally awoke.

And so, waking up far later than he had done in some time, Dean stared at the bedside clock in disbelief. He was surprised that he'd had no trouble getting to sleep. More than that though, he was surprised that he'd slept for so long, and so well. Really well, in fact. In spite of the pools of emerald he dreamt he'd been drowning in. His still slightly sleep-befuddled mind simply sighed in contentment, throwing up the thought, _well, what better way to go?_

Apparently, that was enough to shift his conscious mind to full awareness, as it provided him with quite a variety of decent alternatives upon which he could gorge himself, as well as some not so decent ones, too. But in all honesty, he hadn't been prepared for the massive onslaught of thoughts, sounds, words, images, sensations and emotions, _everything_ that suddenly besieged his mind. It was almost overwhelming the extent to which he was still able to simply feel.

Dean grinned to himself, all of a sudden, as he found himself further able to appreciate the little things in life. Things that previously he might've taken for granted. There was so much for him to live for, so much for him to fight for, and he vowed with utmost sincerity that he would succeed. Sometimes, when life dealt you a killing blow, if you could just deflect it for long enough to pick yourself up again, and if you were lucky, you'd be able to go on.

It was a good thing Dean had always been well loved by Lady Luck.

Stretching muscles stiff from the awkward position he'd maneuvered himself into during the night, Dean felt an oddly tense sort of relaxation wash over him. He wasn't quite sure how to describe it, though he suspected the tension was mostly due to anticipation, pure and simple. Thinking on the cause for his excitement, Dean smiled gently.

In some ways Harry's simple existence was already smoothing over the jagged edges that having San ripped from him had left. Harry, in essence, soothed his soul. But at the same time, he stirred Dean.

Dean grimly acknowledged that if he were a lesser man there probably wouldn't have been anything that could've stopped him from instigating a plan to have Harry in his bed, a.s.a.p. And once Dean had him there, no force in Heaven or Earth, or in Hell for that matter, would be able to move him from it, unless Dean so permitted.

That being the case, Dean was glad to find at least some moral standards still in place. Though for the most part, he wondered if they'd only ever survived because Sam had always been there to prop them back up, whenever they'd started to crumble. Without Sam, Dean had honestly been afraid to contemplate what was left of himself. All his life, all that he was had been defined by Sammy, and what Sammy had wanted or needed, or believed him to be. Big brother, substitute mother, idol, role-model, saviour, betrayer. As his brother willed it, so mote it be.

Each role he'd played had always been in concert with Sammy's expectations. Without him, Dean found himself alone on a stage that was no longer stable. The star, the center of Dean's universe, which had burned so brightly, which had brought him warmth and the belief that no matter how dark it got light would always return, was now gone.

And all that was left in its place was a black hole, which caused time as Dean perceived it to fluctuate, erratically, but at the same time, inexplicably predictably. It slowed, at an ever varying rate, but in the end it was all the same. Slowing, slowing, going slower still.

As such, it appeared as if his death would take an excruciating eternity to come to pass. Dean couldn't help but feel that his very soul was already forfeit to the ever-growing, all-consuming darkness that had been left in Sam's wake. Or so it had been before last night.

Last night had brought him Harry, a balm for his soul. The slow ebb and flow of time already speeding up, racing in fact, not unlike Dean's heart, every time he thought of this second chance that he'd been granted.

Standing, he moved towards the small but neat bathroom that was attached to his room, as he made himself presentable. There was much he had to do, many things he needed to get ready. After all, come this evening, he'd have Harry's life in his hands, and Harry's self under his wing. Figuratively, at least. But you gotta admit, a guy can dream.

One thing's for sure though, dreaming, as it were, was an activity that over the years had become highly valued by Dean. Had, in fact, been all that had kept him sane. And it seemed as if the same would hold true this time round, too.

However, as much as dreaming had kept him going, there was another side to it that on occasion left his dreams tainted. For though they had given him much, they had also stolen from him, too. In truth, his dreams were his greatest source of regret and disappointment. Not to mention pain.

The regret stemmed from all the paths upon which he'd never dared to tread. Ones that he never thought he would, certainly after he'd lost Sam. It was strange how often Dean was happy to be wrong, though perhaps, he need to rephrase that.

Perhaps it was more to the point that Dean hardly ever found himself happy about being right, this most likely due to the fact that more often than not, Dean being right also entailed Sam being wrong.

And that just didn't sit right with Dean. The world was a better place when Sam was right, because as far as Dean was concerned, Sam was, by far, the better person. And though Dean knew Sam would protest otherwise, that was part of the reason Dean had loved him. And loved him still. He was modest, and kind, gentle but at the same time ready to be as fierce as was needed, if he had reason to be. Sammy had always reminded him of a sleeping lion, a magnificent creature, brave and a born leader, but dormant until such a time came in which he had but to wake from his peaceful state to show the world his majestic power and beauty.

And from here he felt his disappointment most keenly. In all his dreams, Sammy had always said yes. Had always remained, even though it killed Dean as he struggled to ask, but somehow never managed to say the words that were needed. In his dreams, Sam always understood. They were connected on a deeper level than they'd ever been when awake, or at least, they were in the realms of sleep in which Dean walked as he tried to escape his own cruel reality.

Dean was as much disappointed in himself, as he was with the hand life had dealt him, the one which allowed him to be so close to the one he loved and yet so far, to be allowed to touch, but only in passing, always restrained, to possess, but only so much, and always holding back.

And from this point, did the pain always stem. These dreams were nothing more than a false reality, one in which he knew his brother, in all senses and permuting all connotations of the word, but from which he would wake and be forced to face the _truth_ of the world. It was this truth that was pain. For the truth hurts. And continued to hurt, for all that the dreams aimed to soften the harsh edges of the real world. They only ever ended up rendering sharper still all that could never be.

The thing is, though, this reality to which he now belonged, was neither here nor there. Neither dream, nor the truth as it once stood. As he'd promised himself earlier, things would be different here.

Sammy was different, now as Harry, and maybe, one day, Dean would learn that dreams can come true.

Ж

First things being, as they were wont to be, first, Harry started the day's chores by ironing Uncle Vernon's business suit, dress shirt, tie, socks and boxers. With precise and practiced motions, Harry by this stage was able to do most things on automatic, with little to no thought required. The speed at which he was capable of doing such things had become a hindrance over time, as he'd grown older. For the faster he'd been able to do things, well, the more things Aunt Petunia had required he do.

Then again, it was better than the alternative, which was generally limited to do restricted freedom of movement, and minimal sustenance. Years of what could be defined as practically indentured servitude to his mother's next of kin had made for his sleek build, unfortunate though it was that their lack of care and provision of true nourishment be it in the traditional sense or of an emotional sort had left him slightly stunted as an individual.

It was thus that even after all these years of being exposed to a far more nurturing environment, Harry found himself more often than not holding himself back, or worse yet retreating from the kindness extended to him. Compliments, as well, tended to make Harry nervous, unsure of himself, not to mention unsure of what would be considered a 'normal' response.

Some of the time, Harry wondered if he wasn't in fact even further removed than the Muggleborns that attended Hogwarts, who were required to get over the culture shock as quickly as they could. Because in all honesty, Harry had never really belonged to, well, anything. And while some might think that this would've made it easier, blank slates, new leaves, fresh pages and all that, it really wasn't.

In a lot of ways, there was no basis from which Harry could connect to others, barring those that were fairly superficial in nature. A lot of who he was, Harry feared, was based on poor imitations of those around him, those whom he had contact with on a regular basis. _Watch, learn, pretend._

Some of it had been construed from the very beginning, that is to say, ever since he'd learnt of his 'identity' as it existed in the Wizarding World. So many expectations, so many standards to which he'd been compelled to conform.

Hanging the various articles of Uncle Vernon's work clothes in an orderly fashion, Harry proceeded onto his other tasks, the next of which was emptying all the rubbish from downstairs, as well as taking out the compost that had accumulated the day before. That done, Harry began preparing breakfast, which was yet another task which required, in essence, only the barest amount of attention on Harry's part. With his mind free to drift, he noted that his ability to effortlessly carry out menial labour was another point which separated him from his peers. Those who came from Wizarding families were accustomed to the use of magic as the basic practical means of keeping a household spick and span.

_Or as near to clean as any Wizarding household was desired to be_, Harry thought, recalling the quasi-neat chaos of the Weasley's humble abode. Harry would always think back on the times he'd spent at the Burrow with fondness, especially as other than Hogwarts it was the closest thing to 'Home' that Harry had ever known.

What's more, when compared to how things were at the Dursleys' for Harry anyway, the Burrow had a warmth, a disheveled but entirely welcoming charm unlike any place Harry had ever been to. Setting the table, as the Dursleys appeared, one by one, the feeling of near non-existence that Harry was almost always bathed in washed over him, but in a gentle fashion, his mantra of _just this one day more_ playing soothingly in his mind, keeping him afloat. He could weather this, knowing that the coast was clear, and that come hell or high seas, there was no way anything would stop him from leaving this night.

With such happy thoughts as these firmly churning about in his mind Harry quickly nibbled on what was permissibly all he'd be getting for breakfast, as he stood before the kitchen counter, packing a lunch for Uncle Vernon to take to work with him.

_Whoever said guys couldn't multitask, had obviously never met Harry Potter_. Harry snorted at his thoughts, before attempting to conceal such an action behind a weak series of coughs. The Dursleys were always far happier believing that Harry was choking on something, as opposed to him finding any amusement, even at his own expense.

Not that they'd believe that to be the source of his good cheer were he willing to confess. He'd learnt this fact early in life. _If there's any excuse not to believe me, then it will be made_.

As soon as the Dursleys had finished eating, Harry set about cleaning up after them, washing the dishes and drying them manually. Why bother wasting money and natural resources on a machine when they had Harry around to do it for them? That's not to say that they didn't own such machines. After all, Harry was gone for most of the year, leaving all chores and the like to rest in Aunt Petunia's capable hands. It was probably another part of the reason why they felt it was necessary to exploit Harry for all he was worth, the short while that he was forced to keep them company.

It was at about this time of day that Uncle Vernon headed off to work, Dudley went off to catch up with friends who lived in the area, and Aunt Petunia did her shopping. Harry was glad that they left him to do what they'd have him do, instead of looming about incessantly, getting in his way and disturbing the natural rhythms and methodological patterns in which he felt most comfortable working.

This also made things easier for Harry, as it meant that he needn't prepare anything for lunch, beyond what he himself would partake of.

Puttering around, the day passed slowly. By the time evening came, and the Dursleys had returned from all their individual ventures, Harry had managed to take care of all the laundry. He'd also tended to the garden, watering, weeding, general maintenance of the areas, be it only out the back. Aunt Petunia always did all the work on the front lawn, for propriety's sake, of course. The mail at least was delivered through the slot of the front door, which meant the Dursleys could comfortably allow him to deal with that too.

After bringing in the laundry, he'd sorted, folded and put away each individual's clothing. He had also laid out the clothes that Uncle Vernon would need for work the next day. These were the easiest of his duties.

What really made him ache at the end of the day, what made his muscles burn and his back complain was the amount of dusting and polishing that was daily assigned to him. Harry had learnt early on in life that polishing glass was an absolute bitch.

The only thing to be gained from it is the fact that he'd never been afraid of turning into Dudley. He was, and had been for as long as he could remember, thin as a rail. So maybe it was good. He could do with a little more muscle.

_But then again, what if Dean would like him better if he looked more like a girl? _Harry shook his head firmly; the fact that he was a boy was just that, a fact. Unchangeable and empirical.

No matter how girly some of the larger and more built guys might consider Harry to be in appearance, he couldn't change the simple fact of life that he was a boy, and if Dean didn't like guys in general, then what were the chances of anything ever developing between them? Slim, at best.

_But you're not just any boy, Harry, you're special_, some voice within him whispered. Harry snorted at it.

Where was his disdain for fame and notoriety now? Harry didn't want Dean to want him because of his name, his history. Harry wanted Dean to see him. And only him. Even if it sounded selfish or egotistical, Harry couldn't quite bring himself to care. After all, he'd lived his entire life in the shadow of his own name, weighed down by the mass of expectations and obligations that had been forced onto him. Admittedly, the treatment was better at a basic level than anything he could ever hope for from the Dursleys. But to Harry's mind, the improvement was for all the wrong reasons. Sure, sometimes Harry felt he merited special consideration, but it wasn't because of who he was, it was because of the circumstances he was again, and again, thrown into.

_Life just wasn't fair_, his mind ever so helpfully supplied.

_I'm not asking for fair_, Harry thought in response.

But if not fair, then what? Harry wasn't entirely sure. At some base level, however, he suspected he could live with unfair, if in return life would be so kind as to grant him love.

Love. Such an elusive thing. Or so it had been for him.

Harry could live with all the injustices of the world. He could sacrifice anything and everything, for that. And perhaps the wheels of life had already started turning, shifting in his favour.

The appearance of Dean Winchester was proof enough of that. And at that simple thought, all the malcontent Harry felt for his life seemed to melt away.

Even the return of the Dursleys could do little to quench the hope welling inside of him. Dean would be coming soon, and then he would be free.

He diligently squished all outward manifestations of his happiness as best he could. And further, ignored the weird, well weirder than normal, looks the Dursleys were giving him. Harry was, after all, quite used to it.

What he wasn't used to however, or rather what he'd long forgotten, was having such a light hearted feeling as this in this place he thought of as, on the bad days, as his own private hell. At the moment though, he was near bursting from excitement, _only hours left! A_nd practically prancing around as he took to preparing the evening meal.

Harry paused in his chopping, _Ah. That… would explain the looks he was receiving_.

Shrugging he continued with the chore at hand, and clamped his lips together, so that no happy noises would escape him. When he was done, cleaned up and all, he'd be able to get ready for bed, and then… Then all he would have to do is wait.

Ж

To Be Continued...

* * *

**Another Word from the Author:** ...Don't kill me for where this ended! I made an executive decision to stop here because the next place I would have felt comfortable doing so probably wouldn't have come for another couple of thousand words... Somehow it just started growing and before I knew it, I was like... Dude! this is way longer than I had expected it to be. Anyhow, if I hadn't, and had instead continue to write until I reached the next 'save point' this chapter probably would've been ever later coming than it already is. 

So, in the meantime, remember to review...! Because many reviews make light work! And on that note, thank you to everyone who has reviewed thus, you know who you guys are, I really appreciate your encouragement, questions and comments!

Until next chapter,

Kamikumai.


	7. Chapter VII

**Word from the Author:** First up, apologies. One, to everyone who reviewed and to whom I replied obnoxiously late, I apologize once more. Also to all you beloved readers out there, I'm sorry that this Chapter is so late coming as well, especially after complaints about where I ended the last one...! Exams had me holed up doing nothing but cram, but as a result, this Chapter is even longer than usual, so I hope you all enjoy it, and proceed to review.

On another note, for those if review anonymously, I just wanted to say thank you for sharing your thoughts and opinions, since I can't do so directly.

That said, let's get this going!

**Disclaimer:** As it stands in chapter 1.

**Chapter 7**

Ж

As twilight darkened into evening, all was still. Dean waited, patiently in the Impala, even as his body thrummed with adrenaline. The crystal on its chord did likewise, warmly and rhythmically against the hollow of his neck. He had yet to take it off and if he could manage it, he decided then and there that he never would. He wondered though whether or not it would always reflect how he was feeling. It wasn't until he'd woken this afternoon that he'd noticed a slight burn mark behind where it rested directly upon his skin. With further introspection he realized that while he'd been occupied in the shower yesterday night it had been scalding hot, which explained the blemish it hid. Then again, perhaps it only reacted so strongly to thoughts of Harry.

The crystal had been fairly calm throughout the day, almost dormant, nothing more than a gentle reassuring warmth, but now, just like his own heartbeat, it pulsed strong and steady and far faster than normal. Far faster than it had the night before, when he'd snuck up and into Harry's room.

_You know all what awaits you now, that's why_, the Sam-like voice said. The fact that Dean could tell it was smiling probably said a lot about how well he'd known his brother. Which was a moot point, anyway. All Dean could hope for was that years of dealing with Sam and all his various moods would help to prepare him to be the best he could for Harry.

A mild look of self-deprecation stole across his face as he looked down at himself, and at what he considered to be the best attire he had on hand, which given the circumstances leading up to his sudden travel plans, didn't really amount to much. He also had no good cologne on him.

_And man, do I feel like this is a first date, for which I am way underdressed and way out of my league_, Dean thought to himself somewhat ruefully. For all he knew, Harry probably wouldn't even notice, or care. Weirder still, Dean had already shaved twice today. Why though, he couldn't for the life of him explain.

_Nerves, perhaps? Yup, definitely first date emotional content. For mature audiences_, Dean shook his head, trying to clear his mind. After all, as soon as Harry's family packed off to bed, he'd be able to do his thing, and have himself a Harry.

Sighing he noted that that might take awhile.

To pass the time, Dean mentally checked over the day's proceedings. It wasn't until he'd had the help of a couple of strong cups of coffee despite how well rested he'd felt, which was likely as much habit as anything else, that he'd truly felt like he was fully awake. Admittedly, this made him sound a bit like a caffeine-addict. However, as they say, recognizing you have a problem is the first step. For Dean though, the next had always been ensuring that he got enough of whatever it was just to beat the temptation – his own personal take on 'prevention's better than cure.' It was perhaps a shame that dealing with Harry likely wouldn't be as easy as that.

This of course led Dean back to what he'd gotten up to earlier. He'd traded some of the unneeded items from the boot of his car in for some cash, before hitting the tables. The pool ones, that is. He'd made a tidy profit, enough for the time being anyway. He'd then gone and bought some supplies, including maps. America Dean knew like the back of his hand, which wasn't of course as well as he knew the front of his hand, but thinking of things such as that really served no purpose beyond making this time-passing thing a little more amusing. Still, his geography had been learnt, as you would have it, first hand.

Dean stopped to think about his sudden fixation upon hand-metaphors. It wasn't like he was going to be seeing anything else anytime soon. Dean reckoned that though he could have discretely gone about fulfilling certain needs elsewhere, should they arise, something told him that that wasn't a good idea. With Sam, it had been part of a persona that Dean had carefully cultivated, in order to protect them both. And though he had enjoyed such forages into the physical pleasures available to him, none of them had ever come near to the way Sam could touch him with just a glance, a sound, a _brotherly_ caress.

And since he'd been given this second chance, Dean figured that he might as well go all out to make the best of it. In this case, it wasn't that absence, from sex that is, would make the heart grow fonder, but more to the point, Dean felt that abstinence would make it, if his wildest dreams should ever come true, all the sweeter for waiting.

Dean intended to devote all he was to Harry. Heart, mind, body and soul. Given that the first and the last were already thus, what was another couple thrown into the mix. As for Dean's mind, Harry would never own that, not until he knew exactly who Dean was, and where he'd come from. It was one of those things that Dean thought Harry would make to be his, slowly, gradually appropriating parts of Dean to keep as they got to know each other. Dean also hoped that it would be the same for him, with regard to Harry.

And as far as Dean's body was concerned, on a technicality, it already belonged to Harry, though only in a purely figurative sense. After all, Dean was more than willing to die for Harry, if need be, and barring bodily interaction of a sexual nature, that was probably the most Dean could ever give of himself in the physical sense.

Speaking of bodies, the other thing Dean had done was change rooms. Instead of his double, he now had the keys to a room with two singles. For all that his baser desires wanted Harry Dean was pretty damn sure it wouldn't be appropriate_ at all_ to have Harry sleeping, even in the word's most innocent sense, with him; even more so simply because Dean wanted Harry so intensely, he wasn't sure he'd be able to sleep at all, and that was never a good thing given his line of work.

So, the compromise had been as such, as it had always been, to keep the one he loved as close to him as he could without crossing any of those lines.

_But being in the same bed as the one to whom you'd given as much of yourself as you'd ever dared?_ That, Dean thought, would be his Rubicon. His point of no return. If ever that happened, Dean wasn't sure he'd be able to restrain himself, his iron-clad will be damned.

Dean knew he could have spun a tale, no problems, to get Harry to bunk up with him. _There were no more rooms available. This is all I could get us with the funds I've got at the moment. _Or something to that effect. It would've been so easy. Only, doing so, tricking Harry into being closer to him? It just didn't sit right. Cos although it would've been easy, and without a doubt exquisite, in the long run however it would've made anything Dean sought to pursue mean less because he himself would have cheated Harry, lied to Harry, and all for his own selfish purposes. And that was definitely not something he wanted to do.

Dean rubbed at his eyes tiredly. He really had woken up feeling rested, but it wasn't so much that he needed sleep... _No_, Dean thought, _it was more like now that he was awake, and conscious of the fact that he was alone and was to continue to be so, at least for the time being, it felt as if he were missing a limb_.

And if an ache so deep your bones groaned in sympathy didn't make you feel tired, then Dean wasn't sure what would.

Good thing he was about to find his rest.

Ж

As soon as Harry had been sent from the presence of his, he mentally sneered the word, _family_, he'd quickly showered before getting ready to 'go to bed.'

Refreshed and ridiculously happy, Harry quietly made his way from the bathroom into his room, where he set his chair under the knob, just in case. Not that the Dursleys were likely to come anywhere near his room. Except for later in the evening when Uncle Vernon would lock his bedroom door from the outside. Harry was only grateful he'd never gotten sick during any night he'd stayed there. He was sure he definitely wouldn't want to see how the Dursleys would react to him being violently ill with no other place to be so, other than in the room. Not that it would be anyone other than he himself who would have had to clean up any such mess.

Harry did a small jig of joy, _s'not like I have to care about that anymore!_

Moving about as silently as he could, after the echoing thumps his little bout of excitement had caused, Harry quickly gathered together all his worldly items. It was a sad fact of Harry's life that it really didn't take more than a few moments to do so. It's not like his Spartan living was of his choice. If it had been, that is to say if he'd been able to choose for himself whether or not he wanted to be immersed in the fine art of materialism, then it would have been no one's fault but his own. And that he could accept. What he couldn't though was the fact that his _family_, for all that they were ignorant bigots, should have at least provided for him enough that he himself could decide! It's not like he'd ever wanted much from the world...

But who was he kidding, blood meant little to nothing to most Muggles, or so it seemed to Harry. They were a prejudiced lot, not that the Wizarding World was all that much better. But still, to think in such comparative terms in no way precluded the simple fact for all that they were capable of great things, of great kindness, the human race seemed as a whole to be more inclined towards great cruelty. Particularly if they believed themselves as having just cause. The mob mentality had never suited Harry, who had always been on the fringe, at the edges, unwanted and unloved always looking in onto what he could never have. Even when he'd been thrown into a World which considered him a part of their central ideology of life, he was nothing more than a figurehead for an imperfect system. And as such, Harry had always felt more comfortable alone, or in the company of a few, rather than a crowd.

That adage, quantity over quality had always held true in Harry's eyes. It was rather funny that he should be thinking such a thought, when the one person with whom Harry felt he could be alone with forever suddenly appeared at his window.

The sheer sight of Dean seemed to steal his breath away, and as it rushed out of him, he felt it catch in his throat, and even as it did, Harry found himself thinking that he didn't care, he could do away without breathing so long as Dean was there.

The difference this time, unlike last night, was that as soon as Dean pulled the window open, Harry was there holding out hand to him, to make sure he didn't stumble.

The warm feeling of skin on skin made his scar itch, and his body tremble. Such an innocent touch, swiftly gone too soon. But as it always seemed to be the case, in its place Harry found that sad, gentle smile, that never failed to make Harry's heart twinge, if only just a little.

"Hey," Dean whispered to him.

"Hey," Harry replied, matching Dean's volume and pitch.

Harry couldn't help but grin at the way Dean's eyes seemed to light up as they took note of his pitiful pile of things.

"You're coming with."

It certainly had the intonation of a statement, except that looking into Dean's eyes Harry could see fragile hope looming behind the intensity of that gaze; he'd seen it enough times in the reflection of his own eyes to recognize it.

Oddly shy once more, Harry murmured into the stillness of his darkened room, knowing well that his voice would carry.

"If you'll have me."

Ж

Dean wondered, as he swiftly made his way up the wall of number 4 Privet Drive and onto Harry's ledge where he proceeded to do as he did the night before, noting that the locks he'd removed from the window the night before were idly sitting on the sill outside, what had been going on in Harry's mind. He hadn't really thought to give it much thought before this moment, as he was often prone to do.

_What if he doesn't want to come with me? Then what? It's not like I can force him. Well, I could. But that would defeat the purpose. Shit! Why didn't I think about this earlier?_ Dean mentally kicked himself. Hard.

_Won't know unless you try_, his Sam-voice helpfully offered.

Determined, Dean put on his game face, which he found was absolutely useless in the face of this incredible young man, who was standing at the window, waiting for him. As if that wasn't the cutest thing ever.

Then he went and put out his hand, as if he were worried that Dean might fall if he weren't there to hold onto him. Dean really didn't have the heart to point out that it wasn't likely that he'd trip since he'd already pinpointed the deformity that had caused him to do so previously. Of course, the fact that he got to touch Harry again, that was just an added bonus.

Dean whispered his greeting, even has he let go of that soothing warmth. Dean felt a bit silly at his sudden desire to always hold Harry's hand, cos boy would that come across as weird. But as his eyes lighted upon a small lot of items, which he assumed to be Harry's stuff, all his anxieties and worries melted away. _Harry wanted to be with him!_

The words, _if you'll have me_, reverberated around Dean's mind, and he winced.

Harry looked at Dean apprehensively, having noticed the wince, and found himself feeling almost fearful that his words had given himself away. Pausing momentarily to gather himself, Harry carefully, in as steady a voice as he could finally manage asked, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Dean replied immediately, his features smoothing once again as the pain subsided. He pulled the crystal out by its cord. "Sometimes it smarts."

"Wow," Harry breathed, delighted. "It's beautiful…"

Staring intensely at Harry, as Harry looked on entranced by the way the gold and red bled into each other, merged and parted and danced in and out ceaselessly, Dean found himself murmuring, "You have no idea."

Harry glanced up at him startled.

Dean cleared his throat, feeling those first date nerves come back to hit him full force. His mouth was suddenly dry, even as he tried to swallow.

_God, I don't think I've ever been this nervous in my entire life_, Dean thought miserably. He was meant to be cool, charming, maybe even a little suave, in order to impress Harry, and maybe get him to like him a little for him, and not just because he was the guy who was saving him from this hell-hole.

Dean was sure that, despite how nice this place looked from the outside, there was evil inside. Evil that hid in the dark and festered.

Perhaps that was why Dean hated these supposedly 'nice' homes so much. He'd walk down a street and note the immaculacy of such places, the perfect façades they presented to the world, all the while knowing that at the heart of things, there was evil to be found there, evil of the worse kind – the kind that grew in humans.

Demonic evil was nothing new to Dean. In fact, demonic evil was comfortable, because that's just how things were. With that kind of evil, for the most part it was what you see is what you get, and Dean liked things simple like that. So, even though there were shades of grey to be found when it came to all the 'origin – hell' evil, there was something infinitely more complex about the human race, why they did what they did, how they tried to justify such actions. All that hate, anger, jealousy, hypocrisy, betrayal, lies, greed, and a whole wealth of deep, dark, dirty forces bringing out the worst in people… Dean had seen his fair share of human weakness. In fact, Dean knew that for most people, self-interest was the driving force for their lives.

For Dean, it had always been family, and his mission: saving the innocents of this world. But above all that, Dean had always been about Sammy, who had been the purest thing Dean had ever known, until now, until Harry.

Sammy, in his short life, short, Dean thought, compared to how long it should have lasted, had been forced to do things that Dean forever wished he could have done in his stead. If blood needed to be shed, better it be on Dean's already stained and dirtied hands than on Sammy's.

Sammy's hands had been made for better things. They had been made for creation, and caring. Dean's hands however, for as long as he could remember, had always brought with them destruction.

He remembered a time years ago, back when Dad and Sammy could go for weeks on end without fighting. One night, his father had patiently sat, in just another of the motel rooms they'd habitually stayed in, and shown Sam how to carve figures out of wood.

Dean had been at a somewhat rebellious age, acting as if he was above such childish endeavors. But in truth, Dean had felt hurt that for once his father had gone to Sam to teach him something first.

Before, there had always been a chain of command – Dad taught Dean first, and it was Dean's job to then show Sam how it was done. His position had been usurped, discarded, and he'd felt incensed by it. Looking back, he remembered feeling uncertain as to whether it had been jealousy of Sam suddenly being in his place or whether it was something else.

With hindsight Dean realized, it had been the fact that, at that moment, Sam hadn't needed him. At their father's suggestion, Sam had been ecstatic, overjoyed at the idea, and as he turned from Dean, focusing all his attention on their father and that stupid piece of wood, Dean had burned with rage. So much so that after Sam had finished, Dean had machinated a plan to destroy it, and make it look like an accident. Thinking back to that time, Dean felt as if his past self had been a bit deranged, a little too obsessed, even at that age. Still, it wasn't something he could change.

As for destroying the thing, he would've gotten away with it too, if Sammy hadn't walked in on him as he swept the figure onto the floor from where it sat next to Sam's bed, and crushed it under his foot. The sound of breath hitching behind him made him whirl.

There stood his little brother looking devastated at the destruction Dean had wrought on what Sam had dedicated hours to crafting. And it was then that Dean had first understood human evil, at the tender age of 14, as he watched his brother run towards him and shove him away from the small figure that lay broken in pieces on the floor.

Before then, Dean had felt guilt for his actions, like he had that one time when he'd been unspeakably irresponsible. That time when he'd left Sammy alone in their room and that Shtriga had almost killed him.

But never, not even 'til the present day, had Dean felt guilt as overpowering and all-consuming as he had then, as his brother turned watery green eyes towards him, eyes that saw deep into him and judged him, and made him judge him self. He had burned in a different way then, no longer from rage, but from deep shame, because his actions just moments before had been uncalled for, deliberate and cruel.

The worse thing about the whole incident was that Sam stopped speaking to him, and did so for just over a week. That was something that had never before happened, something that had torn Dean's heart to piece.

He'd been shut out completely.

It wasn't until the following Monday that he found his heart crushed as surely as he himself had done to the fruit of Sammy's labour. The day he'd turned fifteen, he'd broken, unable to stand not having Sam talk to him, and he'd demanded of his little brother,_ so where's my present?_ Because somehow, Sam always thought of something for Dean, something to be cherished.

So when Sam had nodded silently and walked to their room, with a look that told Dean to follow, Dean found himself grateful to find that their tradition hadn't been broken. Only, it had been, as Sam, still silent, took an oddly shaped, shoddily wrapped present from the drawer of his bedside table and handed it to Dean and Dean wondered what on earth it could be.

He choked when he saw the shards of wood that had been painstakingly glued back together. He breathed out heavily feeling his eyes sting, even more so when he looked up to find Sam's eyes staring at him devoid of emotion, colder than Dean thought they could ever be.

_I'm sorry_, he wanted to say, but even then, he couldn't find the words. They wouldn't form in his mouth, and even if they could have he imagined they'd have tasted like ashes.

_I... _He'd started to say, before he was cut off. _Do you like it?_ Sam had asked Dean then, his voice as lifeless as his eyes.

_Of course!_ Dean had near shouted in response. _...Of course_.

And just like that he'd been forgiven. Dean remembered all too well, that Sam had thought that maybe Dean had hated it, thought it was girly, or childish or something equally as stupid. Sammy had worried that he wouldn't make Dean happy with his gift, and he'd been terribly pained at the thought of Dean's displeasure, which Sam believed had been evinced by his destruction of it.

Dean imagined the time it would have taken to fix the mess Dean had made of things, and found himself, as always, in awe of his baby brother's capacity to love. His ability to forgive, even though Dean felt he'd done so far too easily.

Still, it was bittersweet now to think of that odd little totem that followed Dean around, sewn as it was into the bottom of whatever travel bag he had on him. Because as much as Dean loved it, given as it had been to him by the baby brother whom he loved more than words could tell, it was a reminder of his own weaknesses.

Dean had spent all his life, collecting vows, to train harder, be a better son, a better brother, to not give in to his own desires, instead to see Sammy as happy as Dean could make him.

It was thus to that memory that he tied his vow, _I am weak, but he will make me strong; not in and of myself but for him, because of him, I will be a good and worthy man._

Coming back to himself, his fist tightly clenched around the crystal, he noted that Harry had drifted away from him, giving him space, shuffling his things about, quietly and unobtrusively, as Dean stood in the middle of the room, silent and still.

_I'll never let blood stain your hands,_ Dean vowed.

Suddenly caught up in the memory of a broken Sam, in his arms, bleeding, dying, leaving him… Dean felt his jaw clench hard.

_And never, ever your own. I'd die first before I'd ever let anything happen to you. On this moment, and my soul, this I vow to you._

Ж

Straightening, Harry felt the heat of that gaze burn right through him. He wondered how on earth he was going to get through this without slipping up and confessing what Dean did to him like some lovesick school girl. Already he could pinpoint Dean's location in the room without even looking, it was almost as if he could feel him, a strong and steady presence at the outskirts of Harry's awareness.

Quietly, somehow just knowing that Dean was finished with whatever memory had swept him away into himself, Harry murmured only loud enough for Dean to hear, "How were you planning on getting out?"

Turning as he said this, he caught the end of Dean's shrug.

"I think we might have some trouble getting that... trunk, of yours out the window with minimal noise. Not to mention minimal injuries, to us or the trunk. So, through the front door, I guess. Whatever locks they've got, I should be able to pick 'em."

"We'll need to wait 'til the Dursleys are asleep then," Harry speculated.

Dean nodded. "What do you think, an hour tops?"

Harry thought about it before finally replying, "Do you think you could stand a couple? Better safe than sorry."

Dean smiled, a little bit darkly. "I'm glad you know that one."

A little confused by Dean's meaning, Harry blurted out, "Sorry, what?"

"Better safe than sorry. One of the first rules."

"Rules for what?" Harry's brows creased together as he frowned.

_What, indeed,_ Dean thought wryly. "Since we've got a couple of hours to spare, how 'bout we talk? I'd like to know more about you."

_Oh god, and I'm dying to know more about you_. Only, there was no way Harry was going to voice that thought, even on threat of death. Harry tried to smile smoothly, but in all honesty, it felt a little too twitchy for comfort. Nervously, Harry nodded towards his bed, feeling like a complete slut when he noted the way Dean's eyes widened, momentary though the reaction was.

"Or we could sit on the floor, if you'd prefer?" Harry hastened to add.

"No, no... uh, the bed's... fine."

A little awkwardly they sat, and stared. Harry worried that he might've also been blushing furiously, but then again, perhaps it was dark enough where he sat propped up against the niche that was formed where two of his bedroom walls met.

He hoped that hiding in the shadows was enough to cover his flush, which he thought was being caused by an odd mixture of embarrassment, anticipation and arousal. Clearing his throat, Harry willed his face to cool down already.

"Rules... for what?" Harry reiterated.

"For my work," came the easy reply.

Harry felt his frown deepen, "Which is?"

"I'm a Hunter."

_Now, why did that sound capitalized to him?_ It was the way that Dean said it that made Harry believe that by 'hunter' Dean didn't mean the kind that simply killed and sold animals for produce.

There was a lot more emotion fused into that word than Harry could hope to decipher. He heard pride though, and pain, the burden of responsibilities, but maybe also the satisfaction of doing something that mattered.

Then again, as much as Harry might be able to speculate on his own, the actual talking part seemed like it wouldn't be all that different from trying to pull teeth; an arduous, if not painful, sort of endeavour.

Harry nodded to acknowledge Dean's answer, at the very least, Harry was grateful that Dean wasn't being outright cryptic unlike bloody Firenze and his cabalistic crap.

Patiently, Harry continued, "A Hunter of what?"

Dean sighed, "...the Supernatural."

Harry felt his eyes widen.

"Shit!" He exclaimed. _...Did he say that out aloud?_

"Shit?" Dean asked, eyebrows rising to support his query.

"Uh," Harry stalled, "I mean, no shit?" He certainly hoped Dean's list of things to hunt did _not_ extend to include Wizards... Then Harry remembered Dean's disbelief at the thought of Wizards even existing, and he very nearly breathed a sigh of relief, because, at the very least, it seemed unlikely that Dean would have ever killed a Wizard.

_But what of werewolves?_ Some dark voice whistled through Harry's mind. And with that thought, Harry's heart froze.

_No_._ He wouldn't, it's not their faults, and Dean wouldn't hurt someone if they were innocent. If they can control it, it's not a problem... so Dean, he wouldn't..._

"W-what kind of... things?" Harry managed to stutter, heart in his throat, eyes pleading in the darkness for Dean to tell him... that he wasn't a killer.

"Usually?"

"...Yeah," Harry whispered, not daring to raise his voice beyond the barest of sounds, his pulse suddenly fluttering, his face no longer warm. In fact, Harry felt a little faint. _He said he was looking to kill a demon, so normally it's demons, right? I didn't even know that they were real. I mean, all this time, I've never heard of them and we're meant to know what magical, supernatural things are out there. _

_Unless... _Harry had a terrible thought.

Dean had said that Voldemort was a demon.

_Maybe, _Harry fought against a sob as he began to think on the ramifications of this, on how Dean would look at him, whether Dean would think he needed to be eradicated, whether Dean would be just like them and all those people who could believe, without ever really bothering to get to know him, that he was evil, _maybe... all those demons_, Harry's felt his skin crawl, _were really..._, breathe,_ actually..._, you've gotta breathe,_ just..._, breathe, Harry,_ wiz—_

That smooth and already so beloved voice suddenly broke through Harry's steadily increasing state of panic, managing to impeccably cut off the horrible thing he'd almost thought.

"Violent, angry spirits for one," Dean told him, seemingly unaware of the panic attack Harry had just come close to having. "Other sorts of monsters, vampires and the like, and other things you've probably never even heard of. Demons, demons we can't usually kill, those we just exorcise from the human that's been possessed and send it back to hell."

Harry took a deep breath before asking, "...How—how can you tell if someone's possessed?"

Dean nodded approvingly, "Excellent question. There a few ways you can test to see, though if they want you to know they're there, they'll usually just let you see their true eyes."

"True eyes?" _What could that mean?_ Harry didn't think he had false eyes to begin with...

"It's like their irises fill, they blink and you can see it, the demon staring back at you. Sometimes it's black, sometimes it's red, on the rare occasion, you might get a yellow..." this Dean seemed to almost snarl, "they also tend to leave around trails of sulfur, reckon that might have something to do with the whole hell fires thing. Other than that, if they're trying to sneak around, the most definite indicators would be holy water and _Christo_. Though, as far as inconspicuous goes, those two, definitely aren't."

"Oh... " Harry said. "But what does holy water do exactly?" Harry paused, "And ..._Christo_?"

"Holy water burns them like crazy, and anything that's demon possessed can't stand to hear the Latin name of Christ, makes 'em real flinchy. But like I said, not real smooth if you don't want 'em to know you know what they are."

Harry let out a massively relieved sigh, _Not wizards then..._

"This isn't scaring you, is it?" Dean demanded suddenly.

Harry laughed at the thought, "No, no, not scary. Just... the thought of not knowing that the people you know aren't really who you thought they were..." Harry's mind momentarily flashed back to Mad-eye of fourth year. "It's... good to know that there are ways you can tell. If there weren't, then, yeah, I think that'd be a lot scarier."

Harry looked up to find Dean smiling at him widely.

"What?" Harry whined.

"That was some pretty decent rationale there." Dean pause a moment, as if unsure as to whether or not he should say what he seemed to want to. He seemed to come to a decision quickly enough.

"I'm proud," he said softly.

The fact that Dean actually looked it to Harry set off another lot of blushing. _Damn these stupid pale cheeks, why can't you stop trying to humiliate me!_ Harry chastised them for their propensity to let Dean make him blush. _It so wasn't fair_.

"Vampires?" Harry prodded, "and other things?"

"Yeah."

Harry noted that Dean sounded inexplicably exhausted at the thought. "I'm guessing... there's a story there?"

"Perceptive, too," Dean ribbed.

"Not gonna tell me about it?" Harry wondered aloud.

"See, the thing is," Dean pointed out, "I seem to be doing all the talking here." He looked rather put out by the fact, too.

Which made Harry laugh, "Oh, as if. I'd say I've talked an equal amount," he raised his finger silencing Dean, when it looked like he was going to argue otherwise, "I mean, if you could actually tell me stuff without me having to ask questions just so you'll elaborate, then yeah, maybe I could use my talking time to tell you stuff about me instead."

Dean harrumphed, "Fine. The Vampire thing. Had a bit of a run in with some, to cut a long story short, they hadn't actually been killing anyone, this group of them anyway. They claimed they didn't want to, that they'd prefer to live off animal blood, forsaking the killing of humans simply to fulfill their hunger. At first, we didn't believe them."

"...We?"

Dean floundered for a moment, before continuing his tale, "Had some issues with this other Hunter, Gordon, whose sister had been killed by vamps. He wasn't ready to take them at their word." Dean stopped, as if thinking back on that, "not that I can blame the guy for that. Still, he went too far, and that, that I'm more than ready to heap the blame on for."

"What did he do?" Harry asked, wide-eyed.

"Aht! You're not supposed to ask questions, remember! I'm telling the story," Dean grouched.

"But—"

"Shhhh, or else no more story for you," Dean threatened.

Harry raised his fingers to his lips, and zipped them, trying to look innocent.

"Better. See, he went out and caught the leader, tortured her some before tempting her with his own blood, trying to make her feral. Still she refused, right 'til the end. Managed to get her free, had to smash Gordon up a bit too, not that I wasn't unhappy about doing that, the bastard. I guess, the moral of this story, for me anyway, was that from then on, it made me think a lot more on that kind of stuff, made me actually consider whether or not things that I'd always thought were simply evil were just that. Or whether there was more to it, more to them, alternatives."

It was Harry's turn to smile broadly at Dean.

"Ok..." Dean enunciated. "I'm gonna take it that you liked that story?"

Harry nodded emphatically still grinning, as he exclaimed in an intense whisper, "I'm proud of you, too." And Harry felt it, deep down to his bone marrow, pride in this incredible man. Which might've been strange given that they barely knew each other, only it wasn't. Harry felt there was far more to all this than Dean was telling him, that they were connected far more than Dean was letting on, but unlike how he felt when Dumbledore or the other teachers tried to keep things from him 'for his own good,' Harry felt that whatever Dean was refraining from telling him was for personal reasons. And as far as Dean was concerned, Harry didn't feel the need to pry, not yet anyway.

There really hadn't been any need to have worried. None whatsoever; Dean was a good man, probably the best Harry would ever know. And Remus, and a lot of other magical creatures that Harry knew, weren't in danger of him. More than that, Harry felt Dean was just as likely to help keep them safe. He was that kind of person, the kind who would do the right thing, no matter what. If Harry could believe in only one thing in the world, he decided, it would have to be Dean.

Ж

_It was odd_, Dean thought,_ but the more he opened himself to Harry the more at ease Harry seemed to become_. It just wasn't something Dean was used to. Normally what would happen in life, with people he'd just met, is that he'd either be forced to lie, to perpetuate certain personas, detective, insurance company informant, priest, as well as a whole variety of other identities, false names, omissions made to keep him and Sammy safe. That or he'd find himself in a situation where he got to know someone, made friends with them, but as soon as they learnt of his life and what he did for a living, they drew back, as if scared that they would be infected by him, that they would be plagued with misery or misfortune.

To many, Dean was as much a harbinger of doom and gloom as he was a hero. Most of the time, Dean didn't let it bother him. It was how life was, and he didn't really need the appreciation of these people who only mattered to him in a passing sense, who were only worth as much as their innocence. Beyond that, Dean didn't need them. Not like he'd needed Sammy, and more than that, Sammy's approval. So although Dean had started doing what he did because of Dad, his real addiction had started with the first glimmer of hero worship that had shone from his baby brother's eyes. For Dean, that had always been reward enough, and later when it had turned to mutual satisfaction for a job well done... That was something he'd never shared with anyone else in his life.

Still, it was a change, a really nice one, to have someone who listened to him for reasons other than their life depended on it. Harry was attentive, listened with a quiet intensity that made Dean feel as if he was the focus of Harry's universe at that moment, much like Dean had always felt when he'd been with Sam. Harry listened out of interest, out of curiosity, out of a desire to know Dean Winchester, the man, instead of the Hunter, in spite of the fact that those two concepts were already inextricably intertwined.

To pass the time, though really, it was much more than that, they talked. In truth, Dean felt that it was the very first step in building a bond, a connection between them that if Dean could have his way would become unbreakable. Gently, he would draw Harry to him, never forcibly, but nevertheless surely. He had no plans to push, he was not one who would ever take that which should be freely given, and he had no intention to start now. What Dean needed was for Harry to need him as much as Dean needed Harry. But for the moment, just being close to him meant more than Dean could say.

Dean was tempted to say that it was because Harry was Sammy that he felt this way, but he wasn't sure that that was quite fair. To either Sam or Harry. After all, both of them had been their own people, separate entities, for all that their souls were in essence the same – but people, in Dean's humble opinion, were far more than their essential natures, they were a collection of experiences, memories, recollections, and reactions. Even if Harry were to be split into two identical selves at this exact moment, every moment they spent apart would change them, shape them just that little bit differently. It wouldn't be fair to compare the two either, because really their lives though again possessing likeness did not amount to sameness. And if Dean couldn't differentiate the two, then he had no right to Harry's time.

The foundation was there though, but he wanted to do things slowly, much like he was doing now, to discover anything and everything he could about Harry, if only so he could grow to love him for him. And this, in no way, diminished what he'd felt, still felt, for Sam. Sam lived, in his heart and in his mind, every breath was filled with him. But unlike the spirits that lived on in a shadowy semblance of life, Sam's spirit was an open, loving presence within him, one that he felt was willing to welcome Harry into his life, understanding that this one who was him, but wasn't, was precisely what Dean needed. And much like Dean had never truly been able to deny Sam anything, neither did Sam wish for Dean to suffer.

It was a fine balance, a precipice that should never be crossed, because in doing so, in mistaking Harry for Sammy, Dean would be betraying them both. _And that_, he thought, _would be unforgivable._

Ж

Harry couldn't remember a time when he'd been this happy; maybe the freedom that came with flying, or perhaps further back, when he'd first discovered he wasn't a nobody, an orphaned, unwanted child, he was a Wizard, and for the first time he belonged. It was that feeling again, that he was wanted, maybe not exactly how he imagined it would be nice if Dean _wanted_ him, but still bloody good.

Dean told him a bit more about his life as a Hunter, which sounded a hell of a lot more dangerous than anything an Auror got into. After all, Aurors usually worked in teams, unlike the one man show Dean had run, not to mention the fact that Aurors had the added benefit of their own magic to use as a tool in combat. Dean was just a guy, a surprisingly resourceful guy, yes, but still only human. Some of the stories Dean told him raised the hairs on the nape of his neck. To think, all the close calls, all those moments and things that could've stolen Dean away and Harry would never have gotten the chance to meet him.

Soon though Dean's tales turned into quiet banter, as Dean recounted for him some 'traditional' American urban legends, some of which were actually far more ludicrously stupid than scary. Those which were, though, frighteningly enough were ones which Dean had actually dealt with in real life. It was pretty wicked though, to be able to hear how the myths originated, and how they'd grown and changed until a lot of the time they differed greatly from how things really were.

In all honestly, the Bloody Mary urban legend creeped Harry out the most. He shuddered at his recollection of her. That the myth was based on you calling her name in front of a mirror three times, Harry thought was feasible enough. Names had power, words too. Power to heal, but also the power to hurt. Or in this case, to kill. Plus, your eyeballs dissolving and bleeding out from their sockets? Harry wrinkled his nose in disgust, he didn't think even magic could cure that...

The contrast was interesting as Harry told Dean stories that, though based on events that were historically true according to Wizarding accounts, he forced himself to pass off as being nothing more than tales stemming from a genre of mysticism that existed here in the British Isles.

They also joked about pranks, and it was enlightening to hear about the kind of mischief you could get up to even without the aid of magic. The one about the itching powder had Harry laughing in horror, trying desperately to stifle the sound so it wouldn't rouse the Dursleys from their slumber.

It was funny, hilarious to imagine even, but seriously, he figured he would've been _so_ pissed off if someone ever did that to him. Even if it were Dean, who Harry was beginning to think he could likely forgive anything.

At the contrite look Dean shot him when he finished telling his tale, Harry paused in his laughter.

"You aren't planning on doing that to me, right?" Harry demanded suspicious.

Dean laughed, his expression wavering between what seemed to be mock indignation, good humour and mild commiseration, before simply replying, "Nah, been there, done that."

Harry glanced up at him from under lowered lashes, _been there, done that?_

Harry shrugged his shoulders minutely, _I guess having had to deal with the poor sod that'd been on the receiving end of a prank that cruel once was probably more than enough._

There was another nasty one Dean had pulled involving Nair. Harry didn't get it at first, until Dean explained to him just what Nair was. Again, despite Harry's hair being at times uncontrollable, he definitely did not want to end up bald. This led Harry to tell Dean about some of the twins' pranks, the tamer ones, the ones which, with a bit of stretching one's imagination, were explicable under the guise of Muggle chemistry, which Harry knew little about, and claimed he didn't precisely understand what the twins did to get the results they managed to.

Even then, though, they were still pretty impressive pranks, and that fact definitely showed in Dean's appreciative expression.

"Your friends must be geniuses at chemistry to have managed that," Dean informed Harry, a delighted smile stretching across his lips.

"Yeah, they're not bad," Harry mumbled, suddenly feeling bad about the lies, little and white though they were. He gnawed thoughtfully on his bottom lip.

When he finally got up the courage to tell Dean about... magic and stuff, Harry's life stuff, all he could hope was that Dean wouldn't be too angry with him. He was sure Dean would forgive him, once Harry got him to understand just why Harry was so hesitant to spill all, but still, he hoped Dean did so quickly.

Harry never wanted Dean to be angry with him if he could help it, not for long anyway. And while it might be nice if Dean got angry about him, on his behalf, unlike everyone else Harry knew who always seemed to be so ready to just believe the worse of him, even though they should know better, Harry definitely never wanted to do anything that would disappoint Dean.

It was just something he felt, maybe even soul-deep. Though where that description came from, Harry wasn't sure. It felt right though, appropriate somehow.

Still, because of the depth of that sudden emotion broiling inside him, this churning desire to please Dean in any way he could, Harry thought he might just die if he couldn't manage to do so.

Harry blinked at the thought. _Die? Well, hello teenage melodrama_. Shaking his head at himself, he picked up his train of thought where he'd left off. So, even if he didn't _die_, literally, Harry reckoned he'd still feel terrible, horrible, absolutely awful, if he couldn't live up to Dean's expectations. At least for the moment, all Dean seemed to want from him was comradery, which Harry thought he was doing OK with.

But if Dean were to learn of Harry, of the prophecy, Harry wasn't sure what Dean would expect from him. Dean was a Hunter, trained from childhood, with years in the field, while Harry, Harry was just a boy who knew a few magic tricks. Every time Harry escaped Voldemort, it seemed like nothing more than dumb luck. But every time, Harry paid a price, or rather, someone else paid it for him.

Harry wondered whether it wasn't some ultimate plan of Voldemort's to wear Harry down, to pick off his support, to steal the foundation of his sanity out from under him. Up until this point, it had seemed to have been working.

At one stage, Harry did actually think that if anything, it would be the guilt that would do him in; he was already covered in it, what with Sirius, and Cedric the year before that. The worse thing about guilt though was that it brought with it an infinite number of regrets, that most of the time just hit you, no warning and with no way for you to guard against it. And in other ways, it was so unbelievably predictable, so much so perhaps that you doubt yourself, doubt its approach, and that's how it manages to sneak up on you. It was the guilt and the regret that ate away at him daily, that made him feel exhausted and broken, and lost.

He thought things over from every conceivable angle, he regretted all the things he never thought to do while was able to, all the things he'd never gotten to say to Sirius, all the things he could've done, should've done, but didn't, all the things that had they been different, had _he_ done things differently, would have saved them both – his godfather, the closest thing to a real one he'd ever had, and someone, an innocent someone, who could very well have become a good friend to Harry, had he survived.

Being told not to blame yourself, Harry had discovered, was a little like being told not to pick at a scab. For all that you knew you shouldn't, for all that it meant that you wouldn't heal as fast for something that more often than not had, in fact, been caused simply by accident, for some reason you're never able to resist. As a result, you end up bleeding, needlessly.

It becomes a compulsive little itch that grates across your senses, and compels you, _just pick at it a little, just a little... _And you think, maybe if I did, that would make the itch stop, while logically you know if you scratch it the itch will grow stronger. But still, it commands you, _just give in... just scratch it... that's all you need to do..._ And you think, if I did, maybe it would stop me from feeling it, but you know, rationally, until it heals, it'll always be there lurking, trying to steal your mind away from what you should be concentrating on.

Harry had found that sometimes you needed to let your heart harden itself against the cruelties of the world; it was a part of the healing process. Only once you'd recovered, once new skin had formed over your hurts, only then would you be able to reveal your softened self to the world again, even if scars remain.

Guilt was an odd little thing, and for a long time it had been trying to weasel its way into Harry's life, to take over Harry's thoughts, but Harry realized he couldn't let that happen. Dean was right, if he did that he would be letting the guilt control him, he would be letting it stop him from doing what he needed to do. The guilt didn't help him to remember, all it did was cloud the good, leaving the bad as the focal point of Harry's thoughts and remembrances.

As far as epiphanies went, that guilt was a hindrance wasn't particularly life changing. At least not in any instantaneous sort of way. But it was something that Harry would work on, and he felt he would be better for it. He needed to keep on living, for Sirius, and Cedric, because only that would make them happy.

He would remember them too, for the goodness in their hearts, but also he would learn from their mistakes, without letting the guilt take over.

Harry realized with a start that silence had fallen in the room. He absently noted the thumb nail he was chewing on, as he shifted his attention back to Dean, who was again smiling that odd half-smile that looked nostalgic but sweet, if touched by a little sadness, the same sadness that never seemed to leave Dean's eyes. To Harry, it looked like the kind of sadness that lingered even long after its cause had passed by. Harry felt no need to pry, except for the fact that if the sadness grew too strong, Harry was scared that he might lose this person so new, so strong, but still somehow so fragile.

"You think a lot," Dean told him, smiling.

Harry blinked. "Don't worry, I think I've almost used up my quota for the decade," he dryly replied.

"You can have some of mine then, I've found I don't use it all that much anyway."

"That," Harry declared, "I find hard to believe."

"I'm an instincts kind of guy," Dean announced loftily.

"And if they're wrong?" Harry prodded. "You need to think then, don't you?"

"See, there you go being all smart again," Dean joked.

"I'm not," Harry stated seriously, another frown forming.

Dean decided to ask, despite the fact that he knew full well what Harry meant. Still, he wasn't about to let this go, not when he knew that intelligence was a part of Sammy's nature. There was no way Sammy's soul, no matter its life experience, wasn't bursting to be filled with knowledge, to understand people, the world and how everything was connected.

Following in Harry's example, in an equally serious tone, Dean shot the words into the darkness, "Not what?"

"I'm not smart," Harry insisted, "and I'm definitely not very good with school work."

"School work, huh? If those are your standards, I guess you must think me pretty stupid, then?"

"What?" The word exploded from Harry's mouth.

"I'm just saying."

"Of course you're not stupid!" Harry cried. "You can do all kinds of things, deal with all kinds of things, and you strategize. You figure things out. If it'd been me in all those situations you told me about, I bet you I'd already be dea—" Harry's voice died off, as he saw the way Dean's eyes tightened; he looked like he was trying not to cry.

After a pause, Harry tried to begin again. "I—"

"Don't." Dean whispered harshly, and there was nothing Harry could do but fall silent.

The moment dragged on. It was one of the longest moments of Harry's life.

Eventually Dean sighed, deeply. "Don't talk about dying," he said, finally.

"I'm sorry," Harry apologized, not knowing what else to say.

"It's not your fault." Dean scrubbed a hand over his face, suddenly looking exhausted to Harry's eyes.

"I've seen more death than you can imagine. And just the thought of you—," Dean sucked in a shaky breath, "I know it doesn't seem like a long time, we've only known each other for, I guess we could say it's been two days now, but still," Dean's features hardened, "I won't let anything happen to you. I won't let you go."

"I'm not going anywhere," Harry appeased. He paused before adding, "Not without you."

Dean tried to smile, but felt that it might be a little worn around the edges. He hadn't been prepared for those words from Harry's mouth, and they'd hit him far harder, cut into him far deeper, than he imagined they would.

"I'm gonna hold you to that," Dean threatened weakly.

"I'm expecting you to," came the honest reply.

Dean glanced at his watch, "And on that note," he looked back up at Harry, "I'd say we should go."

Ж

To Be Continued...

* * *

**Another Word from the Author:** Hopefully now that the worst of my exams are over, I shall be able to update a little more steadily... (Keep your fingers crossed!) 

So, yet again, in the meantime, I'd love to hear what you thought of this chapter, especially since it was so much fatter than I expected it to be... I just want to say I really love hearing from you guys, and the reviews I received during the lead up to my exams really encouraged me to study hard and not worry about my exams once they were out of the way -- instead, the whole way through I kept thinking, "Ah! I really want to work on HP&SP!" So many thanks to everyone, even those who are silently enjoying this (because that's usually me, too when it comes to fanfic reading...)!

But until next chapter,

Kamikumai.


	8. Chapter VIII

**Word from the Author:** Once again, I need to apologize for the UTTER lateness that is this chapter... My only excuse is that I spent a lot of the last couple of weeks doing random things like drawing floor plans and sketching the layout of Harry and Dean's room, as well as more general planning about the direction of this fic, and the content of chapters to come... Basically, I've been busy, busy, busy, when I'm not doing nothing, that is...

Unfortunately, chapters will probably end up being a bit slow coming for a little while as I'm going away fairly soon, for a month or two... I should be able to update during that time... Maybe... I guess, we'll just have to wait and see.

On that note, thank you, everyone, for your patience, and I hope this chapter is up to par, despite it being slightly shorter than normal (if you can really call a chapter that amounts to 5800 or so words 'short'...!), that's just how it happens... or rather, happened. Anyway, the next one should be longer... I think... (I'm not the most decisive person, as you can see...).

Right-o! Enough from me, on with the chapter!

**Disclaimer:** As it stands in chapter 1.

**Chapter 8**

Ж

The first thing Dean had to do was pick open the lock on Harry's bedroom door. First thing, that is, after moving the chair which had been propped up under its handle. Dean gave Harry a look that suggested Dean thought him crazy, to which Harry responded with a shrug and a small smile.

Shaking his head, he got to work. The lock in question wasn't unlike the kind you found on front doors, and proved to be little to no hassle. In under a minute, they heard the tell-tale _fli-click_ of the lock mechanism, opening up under Dean's skilled hands and tools. Dean heard Harry sigh in what sounded like unfettered contentment.

Shooting Harry a look of fond amusement he bent to pick up Harry's trunk. A hand on his wrist stopped him.

He looked questioningly at Harry.

"Watch out for the fourth step down, it squeaks."

He nodded in acknowledgment of the warning, before lifting the trunk and quietly opening the door and stepping out into the hallway. He stood back to let Harry out, watching, quietly amused as Harry struggled to keep hold of what looked like his school bag, a bunch of books and, weirdly enough a bird cage. Harry had insisted that Dean would only be allowed to take the trunk and nothing more and that Harry could carry the rest himself, thank you very much.

Dean nodded in the direction of the stairs, and Harry began to silently make his way towards the front door, as Dean himself shut the door and locked it again.

_Might as well make them wonder_, Dean thought. Of course, little did he know that come morning, the Dursleys would be having a major freak-out, believing that Harry had somehow done magic, and was lying in wait and at the ready, drawing it out and savoring the moment before he would curse them.

Then again, if Dean had known about the extent of their neglect, he might've taken drastic measures, then and there, himself.

But as it was, Dean simply left it at that, and followed the path that Harry had just taken, mindful of the squeaky step. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he silently waved Harry back, requesting that he be given a little room. Usually getting out was far easier than getting in, after all, the point of locks on doors was exactly that, to protect the interior from whatever was outside. It would've been a bitch had he been trying to get in, what with the lock and chain – not the best for covert operations.

As quietly as possible, Dean drew the golden chain back in its slot until it was free. The next thing he did was turn the deadlock, which wasn't even locked. Then there was the fact that none of the British houses around here seemed to have screen doors, not that Dean was complaining, after all that meant fewer barriers between getting Harry to freedom.

Pulling the door open, Dean bowed, and gestured magnificently with the one hand he wasn't using to balance Harry's trunk by his feet, as Harry obviously tried to hold in his snickers.

"After you, Milord," Dean whispered pompously, in the best British accent he could muster.

Harry bowed in return, fumbling as the cage almost fell from his over laden arms. Just as he managed to steady his load, Dean pushed him out the front door, swiftly drawing it closed behind them.

Grinning at the way Harry's eyes had lit up now that they were outside, in the fresh, damp midnight air, Dean beckoned for Harry to follow him.

They walked in silence, savoring the cold darkness that embraced them. Dean led them to the nearby park where he'd left the Impala.

As they drew near enough to see it, its cleanly washed sheen sparkled as it reflected the light of nearby street lamps.

Circling the car, Harry looked back at Dean.

"This is yours?" He asked in an awed tone, as he stopped at the boot.

Dean preened, the way Harry was looking at the Impala was doing wonders for Dean's ego, "Gorgeous, isn't she?"

"She?" Harry asked, looking at Dean, amused.

"Of course 'she' – I'm pretty sure guys don't go around calling their rides 'boys,' for obvious reasons," Dean replied jokingly.

The slightly hurt look he got made him backpedal fast. "Not that there's anything wrong with riding—" the word 'boys' at the end of that sentence suddenly sounded really, really _way_ too suggestive for Dean's comfort, "uh, calling," he amended, "a beloved piece of machinery 'he,' or even giving it a masculine name," Dean nodded to emphasize the fact that this was truth.

Harry looked mildly appeased, "_Have_ you named… her?"

"Well, no. I just refer to her as 'girl,' usually," Dean explained. "She doesn't actually have a name."

Harry snorted at this, "That's pretty harsh."

"How do you figure?" Dean frowned.

"Just that, you're obviously fond of… the girl, you like to ride her, and take her around, but you don't even know her name. Or rather, you never bothered to find out."

"Hey, now," Dean leaned Harry's trunk against the boot as he fished around in his pockets for his keys. "Just because names aren't exchanged doesn't make time spent together any less meaningful." He was half-joking, apart from the fact that, truth be told, half of the time, he didn't get a first name until after the fact.

Opening the boot, and dropping Harry's trunk in with his weapons, Dean rearranged things quickly in order to get everything to fit. Satisfied, Dean turned to Harry, hands extended to take the stuff Harry was holding from him, only to find Harry staring blankly at him.

Harry, for his part, was busy being overwhelmed by the sudden realization that Dean knew a lot about women. About pleasing them, and about making them want him. And there was no reason not to think so. It was there, in the way he spoke, the way he moved, all of it. They were reminders that Dean could have anyone he wanted. And most likely had had anyone he had wanted...

The thought made Harry kinda hot, but at the same time it made him feel terribly awkward, inadequate. That feeling of insignificance washed over him, as it had too often done during his relatively short life.

Dean kicked himself as Harry looked away from him. He'd obviously said something wrong, again, though as to what, Dean had no idea.

Maybe the name thing was a big deal to Harry, so trying to make amends he added, "But you can call my car whatever you want, _Harry._" Dean felt it important to stress Harry's name, to show him that he was important enough to Dean for him to know it, remember it and use it.

Harry looked back at Dean, who was looking at him earnestly, as if he felt it was necessary to apologize, even without words, and luckily without knowing just what was going on in Harry's head.

"Any suggestions?" Harry queried.

"Uh, well, usually it's just 'the Impala,'" Dean supplied, the final syllable's tone creeping upwards, as if he were asking Harry whether that was okay.

"I'd say that's good enough for me," Harry affirmed. Storing away the little epiphany he'd just had for later, Harry held out his books, but kept a hold of Hedwig's cage.

Taking the books and sliding them in next to Harry's trunk, Dean looked at the cage curiously before demanding, "That is for a bird, right?"

"Yup," Harry said.

It was at that precise moment that Hedwig chose, probably having already realized that her master was no longer locked inside but was in fact outside where she could get to him, to swoop towards Harry and Dean.

Dean's first reaction was to duck. Luckily before his instincts compelled him to start rolling, and go for his gun, he noted that the white blob that had flown at him was in fact an owl, now perched, and hooting happily, upon Harry's upheld arm.

Dean blinked, straightening up. "…What's with the owl?"

"She's my pet."

"She?" Dean laughed.

"Yes, well, unlike your car Hedwig is in fact anatomically female."

"Hedwig?" Dean echoed, "Like a wig on your head?"

Harry paused, "...I never thought of it like that, so, _no_. It's the name of a famous historical figure."

"And… this is common in Britain?"

"Yes, we have many historical figures." Harry grinned.

"Oh yeah, very witty. I was, however, talking about the owls as pets bit. I didn't even know you could buy them," Dean remarked.

"It's not… that uncommon," Harry hedged uneasily, wondering if Dean thought he was weird because he had an owl for a pet. Harry could accept that, because he was pretty sure that before he knew he was a Wizard, _he_ would've thought it weird to have a pet owl. Possibly also illegal, but since it was so run of the mill in the Wizarding World, Harry hadn't really questioned it for some time now. It had simply become a fact of life. And soon, Harry would have to make it a fact of Dean's life. Once he got around to telling him... well, everything.

"Fair enough," Dean ceded, before admitting in a wistful tone of voice, "always wanted a pet when I was little."

"Really?" Harry enthused. "Weren't you allowed to?"

"Ah, well, it wasn't so much a matter of being allowed to or not. It was more that we moved around too much for us to have one."

"We?" Harry prompted.

"Yeah, Dad, me and Sa—" Dean swallowed visibly before finishing, "Just me and my family."

There was a strangely pregnant pause, during which Harry couldn't help but wonder whose name had been cut short. ...A sibling's, maybe?

_You remind me of someone…_ Dean's voice flowed swift and sharp through Harry's mind._ It doesn't matter._ Dean had told him._ He's gone now._

_He's gone... A brother, then?_ Harry thought. But why would Dean refuse to say his name?

_Refuse to?_ Harry's mind scoffed at him._ More like can't. Much like you can't say Sirius without your throat closing up on you, threatening to choke you of all the breath you have._

"Oh," Harry breathed, unsure of what one was meant to say in response. A yawn suddenly broke free, causing Dean chuckle, the somber mood evaporating in an instant.

"Well, do what you gotta do with the owl," Dean said, while Hedwig hooted indignantly at Dean's comment, which caused Dean to pause, momentarily taken aback at the bird's oddly person-like behaviour.

"...She doesn't understand me, does she?" Dean questioned, curious as to the extent of... Hedwig's, he stifled a snort at the name, intelligence.

"I think to some extent she does," Harry replied proudly. "She's a pretty smart owl."

"With sharp claws, and a hard beak," Dean lamented, "I guess I'd best not piss her off."

"I'd have to say that's sound advice," Harry agreed. "Especially as she can crap on you like the best of them."

"Great. Just what I need."

Harry smiled, "I'm sure she'll love you. If not now, then eventually."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean grumbled good naturally as Harry struggled not to yawn again. "Best be getting you to bed, huh?"

Harry smiled at him sheepishly. He quickly bent, and put Hedwig's cage on the ground by the Impala, opening it so that she could get in. Once she was safely inside, Harry, suddenly stifling yet another yawn, picked up her cage and looked sleepily at Dean.

"Right, then. In you get." Dean held the passenger side open for Harry as he got in. He noted the gentle manner in which Harry placed Hedwig's cage on the floor by his feet. Closing the car door firmly, Dean crossed to the driver's side, _just like old times_, he thought, smiling as he saw Harry had already nodded off, seat-belt only halfway there.

_Sleep well_, Dean thought as he buckled him in fully, and brushed a swift kiss against the familiarly tousled hair.

Ж

Harry woke up just as Dean was pulling into a parking lot. Looking about, disoriented, his eyes caught upon a deep blue sign which read, the letters in white, _Little Whinging Inn_.

_I'm at an inn_, Harry's befuddled mind provided, _alone. With Dean._

And just like that, Harry was awake.

"Hey."

Harry turned to see Dean leaning comfortably against the steering wheel. "Hey," he greeted, his voice a little rough from sleep. "How long was I asleep?"

"About a half hour."

Harry frowned. "I didn't think this place was that far away from the Dursleys'."

Looking mildly embarrassed, Dean confessed, "I drove around the block a couple of times."

Harry gave him a look that simply said _what on earth for?_

"You looked... peaceful. I didn't want to disturb you."

Hedwig hooted in what seemed to be agreement.

Harry blinked as he realized it was true. He did feel rested, far more so than he had since before Sirius. Harry's eyes widened as he came to another realization. He'd completely forgotten about Sirius, and the Veil, and the whole horrible incident. Pained, Harry closed his eyes again.

_No_, Harry thought violently, _no more guilt. It's ok to go without thinking about what happened. It's not like by doing so, you're forgetting Sirius..._

_But didn't you?_ Harry shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts.

_Sirius would be glad that I can sleep again, without waking, screams caught in my throat, because of the nightmares_, Harry told himself firmly.

"But, it looks like I really should have."

Harry started as Dean's voice intruded on his thoughts.

"No!" Harry protested. "I— I'm glad you didn't. I slept really well. Thank you."

Dean smiled, before suddenly asking, "You're not hungry or anything are you?"

"Oh, uh, no, I'm good," Harry said, a little bit confused by the seemingly random question.

"It's just that you look like I should feed you," Dean muttered.

Harry felt mortified. Maybe he _was _too skinny. Maybe Dean was repulsed by his skinniness, maybe Dean was embarrassed at having to be seen with someone that looked like Harry, not that there was anyone around to see them.

"I'm pretty sure they didn't feed you right back there, that place I got you from," Dean interrupted Harry's personal bout of insecurity. "And I just want to make sure you get what you need. So, I guess I really should just be telling you to tell _me_ if you want anything or need anything or... you know, anything."

Harry shook his head at himself ruefully, before responding. "I'm fine, really. You've already done all I need."

"Good," Dean stated. "That's good. Now come on."

Dean got out of the Impala, Harry following suit, carefully extracting Hedwig as he did so.

"Harry?"

"Yeah, Dean?"

"I'm not sure you can take an owl in there with us..." Dean started.

"Oh," Harry said. "I'll let her out, so she can hunt if she wants to. Is it alright for me to leave the cage in the Impala?" Harry asked as he opened the cage and held his arm out for Hedwig to perch upon.

"That's fine by me," Dean told him, taking the cage as he said so.

Now that his other hand was free, Harry ran his fingers against the pale feathers of Hedwig's neck. "Stay close by, okay?" Harry asked of her. She hooted, pecking one of his fingers affectionately before flying to perch in a nearby tree. Harry then turned to Dean expectantly.

"I take it I'm still only to take the trunk, huh?" Dean guessed.

"You got it," Harry informed him, happily.

Together, they moved to unload Harry's stuff from the boot. It was a quick enough process. Once everything was out, and the Impala locked, they stood a moment looking at the Inn.

"We'll be staying here awhile. No reason not to, it's a pretty nice place," Dean rambled, then shrugged. "Probably one of the best I've ever had the chance to stay in."

Harry felt as though his face was going to break from how widely he was smiling. _I'm free_, he thought ecstatically, _plus, I get to stay in a really nice Inn, for at least some time, in the company of a kind and gorgeous man, to whom I find myself more and more attracted..._

In all honesty, what more could he ask for?

"Here," Dean said, as he began to walk towards the front entrance of the Inn, "Come on, I'll show you our room."

Harry felt his heartbeat pick up at Dean's words. _Our room_. _Oh __**god**_, Harry thought, _that sounded good_. He was going to be sleeping with Dean. Dean and a bed. Harry with Dean, in a bed.

_Oh god, oh god, oh god_.

Walking past an unmanned service desk, they headed up a flight of stairs before turning left. Harry marveled at the place. It looked and felt alive. Not quite Hogwarts alive, but still, the place seemed lived in, like it had a history, a story to it. It was a place of memories and warmth. Even the carpet in the main corridor seemed lush and inviting. The whole place emanated a feeling of welcoming homeliness.

Harry stopped a few paces behind Dean, as he stood in front of a solid timber door which had a polished brass figure of '9' placed at eye level upon it. Harry watched as Dean got out his keys and unlocked the door. He couldn't help but grin even wider when Dean threw a smile over his shoulder and nodded his head, asking Harry to enter first.

Harry felt his grin falter a bit upon entering. He looked at the two singles in the room in disappointment.

_What were you expecting?_ His mind mocked._ That your Prince Charming would have suddenly felt the urge to shack up with you in the same bed?_

_It would've probably saved him some money_, Harry thought to himself petulantly.

Harry wasn't entirely sure what Dean mistook the look on his face to mean, but he was apologizing, as he seemed wont to do where Harry was concerned.

"I'm sorry, I didn't even think about it. You're probably not used to having to share a room like this. If you'd prefer, I could get you your own…?"

"No!" Harry said vehemently.

Dean looked a little startled at his outburst.

"I mean," Harry stammered out. "I normally live in a boarding school. We sleep in dorms. It's not a problem," Harry hurried to reassure him.

Dean smiled, and simply said, "Ok."

There was a slightly awkward silence as they both stood there at the entrance to their room, smiling at each other like idiots.

Dean cracked first, and laughed a little. Harry's laughter soon followed. If Harry had had to explain why he was laughing, he would probably have said that it was caused by the feeling of pure joy coursing through him, his momentary rejoinder to reality notwithstanding.

So what if he wasn't in the same bed as Dean. Harry had _never _been in the same bed as anyone. Not for as long as he could remember. Maybe once upon a time, his parents would've taken him and placed him between them, as they slept, as a family, together and safe. But that time was no more, and never would be again. Even in the dorms, the curtains turned their beds into individual sanctuaries, as was to be expected really.

This, though, was the closest to another person Harry would ever have been whilst sleeping. And by far the most intimacy Harry thought he had ever shared in his life. Excluding the times he had almost died with his friends. Though, that was something altogether different. Not exactly what one would call a good sort of closeness. In fact, such occurrences would more aptly be categorized as being too close for comfort.

With barely a metre between them, Harry thought, Dean was within his reach, all he would have to do is stretch out his hand, and he would be able to touch him.

And so, Harry laughed, filled with joy and a strange sort of reassurance that Dean was real and here with him.

He also couldn't help but appreciate the rich, deep texture of Dean's laughter. Then there was the way that Dean's entire face lit up with it. It was truly a sight to behold.

Dean was beautiful. Even more so when he laughed.

It only took a minute or so for them to calm done, the occasional chuckle escaping each of them intermittently.

"We should put your stuff away," Dean finally said, at last getting himself under control. "Where do you want the trunk?"

"At the foot of whichever bed is mine is where I usually put it," Harry told him.

Dean did as Harry had instructed while Harry laid his own stuff and Hedwig's cage upon the ornate timber writing desk that sat in the far corner of the room.

"I'm just gonna use the bathroom, so make yourself at home," Harry heard Dean call from behind him.

Harry turned to see him open a door that appeared to adjoin their room to an ensuite bathroom.

"Home," Harry whispered into the comfortable silence that surrounded him.

Ж

Escaping into the bathroom, Dean took a deep, steadying breath. Grimacing, he quickly moved to the basin. Hand on the cold faucet, he paused, sighed and turned. He stared at the flow for a moment before cupping his hands under the running water and splashing his face with it. Turning the tap off, he grabbed the hand towel off its rack and wiped his face dry.

He wasn't sure whether he wanted to sleep or not. He wasn't exactly tired, but then again, not being exhausted was a fairly foreign concept by now and as such sleep had become an appropriate thing to do whenever he had the time to. And now that he did have Harry with him, there was time. Time to prepare, and time to plan. He'd thought about what Harry would have to do about his education. For all intents and purposes, Dean had just kidnapped him from the residency of his legal guardians. He hadn't even considered that Harry would attend a boarding school, not until Harry himself had said so.

Then again, given what Dean had seen of Harry's so called relatives, he wasn't surprised that they'd ship him off for as much of the year as they were able to. He'd have to talk to Harry about this – whether he wanted to continue with his education at that school, or whether he wanted to change schools and pretend to be another person entirely.

The latter was something Dean was familiar with, but not to the extent of establishing a permanent alternate persona. He'd always lived as Dean Winchester, the fakes had only ever been for when he'd had to do things that sometimes went a little outside of the law. Still, he'd give all the options some thought before bringing it up with Harry. From what he had gathered there was still some time before the school term in England started again. And Dean's first priority, in his opinion anyway, was getting to know Harry.

Carding his fingers through his hair, Dean sighed again. He could only hope that Harry's soul would connect on some level to him, and that Harry would think of him as a person, instead of his own personal saviour.

Dean grabbed his tooth brush, squirting a large dollop of tooth paste upon it and wetting it, he cleaned his teeth, all the while thinking about how he should go about getting to know Harry, about what he should reveal of himself and when.

After all, the whole _I was in love with you in another reality, where you just so happened to be my **brother**, but that's all ok, because you're you and I think you could mean something to me, something more and hey! Guess what? We're soul mates!_ might just happen to scare a guy away, Dean thought to himself humorlessly. And having Harry run away from him? It would be like reliving it all over again. Worse perhaps, because this time round, it would be entirely his fault.

He'd have to play it safe, take it slow, approach with caution. Really, it would all depend on Harry, and how he responded to Dean. Which was going to be a real bitch, given that Dean knew that, although he had liked to play dumb with Sam especially when it came to the emotional crap, there were times when he would get seriously confused about Sam's rationale behind certain things. To some extent Dean thought that Sam had been an almost purely emotional creature. He felt before he thought. This tended to skew things, their interaction for one, as Dean knew he was prone to over thinking things before letting himself attach emotional values to his thoughts.

Dean hoped he would be able to keep things light, at least to begin with. General and not overly personal in nature. Nodding, he rinsed and spat. And decided to pee while he was in there.

_What to talk about?_ He asked himself, assuming that Harry hadn't already gone to sleep in the mean time.

_Food!_ His mind alighted upon as an excellent topic for conversation. _There was no way that could go wrong..._

Satisfied with his train of thought and decision, he finished up, washed his hand and headed back into the main room.

He found Harry with his back to him, standing at the desk, arranging things neatly on its surface.

Clearing his throat, he smiled when he saw Harry jump at sound. Harry whirled to face him.

"I thought you might've gone to sleep already," Dean said.

"Oh. No, I thought I should wait for you," Harry said, shyly letting his eyes slide away, only to stare at his designated bed.

"If you're tired, you should sleep. You shouldn't wait for me," Dean murmured, striding forward and taking a seat on his own bed. He watched curiously as Harry seemed to nervously inch forward to sit across from him.

"I... thought it would be rude not to say good night..." Harry told him, haltingly.

_Adorable_, Dean thought, and smiled. He reached a hand out and ruffled Harry's hair. "You don't need to be polite around me."

"But, you've already done so much for me, and I'm really grateful!" Harry protested.

"What I did for you..." Dean started, before pausing as he tried to think of how he should word what he wanted to say.

"What I did," he continued, "was as much for me as it was for you."

"Because you're a Hunter," Harry whispered, meeting Dean's eyes for a moment before glancing away. "It's what you do, right?"

Dean struggled wanting to deny the point wholeheartedly, but if he did, he'd have to explain. _So much for food and nice easy icebreakers, seems we've already melted a few polar caps. Now to see if I end up drowning..._

"It's more than that," Dean stated simply. "Only... I think if I tried to explain it right now, you might hate me."

"I could never ha—" Dean watched as Harry swallowed visibly. "Why would I hate you? You're the best thing that's happened to me in a long time."

Dean sighed. "And if I said the same of you?"

"I don't understand," Harry said.

"You don't have to. All you have to do is believe. I promise you, Harry, you're much more than a job. You're important to me. To me, it feels as though I've known you forever," Dean confessed, words that were true but still hid the truth. "But I also feel as though I need to know you more. And you, me. Then maybe you'd understand. What do you think?"

Harry nodded, "I want to know more about you, too. And not just because you saved me from that place when I desperately needed to escape it... I said before that you seemed familiar. The more I see of you, the more true that feels. Like I know you, and it's distinctly you, but at the same time the recollection is vague... I— I don't really know how to explain it," Harry shook his head a little as if to clear his thoughts. "I feel as though we're connected."

Dean smiled and brushed back a lock of messy hair that had fallen to obscure one of Harry's eyes. "Connected, huh?"

Harry nodded once again, still a little hesitantly.

"I think that's a pretty good way to describe us." _Pretty damn correct, too, _Dean silently added.

Harry smiled at him sweetly, as if he were glad that Dean approved of his wording, as simple as that.

"So," Dean said, his hand falling back to rest upon a knee as he leaned forward.

"Yes, Dean?" Harry asked.

"What's your favourite food?"

Dean smiled some more as Harry laughed at his question, and asked, "Is that all you think about?"

His smile turned rueful, as his eyes racked over the charming young man who sat before him.

_If only you knew, Harry... If only you knew.s_

Ж

Together they talked about food. It was interesting, Harry thought, as they both ended up spending quite a lot of their individual time spent talking trying to explain to other the appeal of certain things that the other thought just didn't seem natural.

It reached its peak when Dean proclaimed one of the delicacies of the known world to be fish tacos, to which Harry's only response had been, "Taco? What's a taco?"

Dean had looked at Harry in horror, before whispering dramatically, all the while pointing what appeared to be an incriminating finger at Harry's nose, "You... you...! You _don't_ know what a taco is?"

Harry had merely shrugged and explained, "Whatever it is, all I can say is that the Dursleys aren't the most culturally tolerant people."

Dean nodded, easily accepting Harry's explanation. "Yeah," he said. "I definitely picked up those kinds of vibes from them."

Harry shrugged again.

"But you...! My god, how they've deprived you," Dean cried, indignantly.

Harry almost winced at that, thinking of the reactions his friends and their families had had to the Dursleys treatment of him. Somehow, he imagined that Dean's reaction would be by far worse.

_And there you have it,_ Harry thought morosely._ Yet another thing you're keeping from him_.

But what Harry couldn't bear thinking of was the chance that Dean would simply feel pity for him. For the moment, Harry was fairly certain that Dean was just trying to lighten the mood, lessen the severity of what undoubtedly perceived as minor neglect.

In some ways it went far deeper than that. But sitting here with Dean made it feel like the long past. It no longer mattered.

With that thought, Harry was able to smile crookedly at Dean's emphatic exclamations, as he continued to extol the wonders of the taco.

His smile turned into a full blown grin as Dean put on the most serious face Harry could imagine him ever trying to don. Harry couldn't help but laugh at the faux-menacing voice Dean used to tell, "You haven't _lived _until you've had tacos, and nachos, and M&Ms!"

The content was just too absurd, especially as in his normal voice he said, frowning a little as he did so, "Not necessarily all at once though."

"I guess you'll have to educate me then, on the finer points of cuisine available in America," Harry laughed, shaking his head. "Anything else you want to try and con me into trying?"

Dean smirked, "I'll let you know. So, wow that we've covered foods, tell me, what's a weird drink that I can get a hold of here, that I shall evidently have to try at some stage or another?"

Without even really thinking about it, the first thing that came to mind, and which Harry subsequently said was, "Pumpkin juice."

Harry blinked as he realized that Dean was looking at him in disbelief. Almost to the same extent that he'd shown when Harry had told him that the so called Demon that had killed Harry's family was a Wizard.

"Pumpkin juice," Dean said. "You're kidding me, right?"

Harry considered backtracking and denying it but... well, sooner or later Harry would be telling Dean about the Wizarding world, so technically if he told Dean that he was kidding, it would make the whole thing seem like a joke.

"No joke. Pumpkin juice."

"And they sell that stuff here?"

Harry really couldn't do much more than cough in response to that particular question, since pumpkin juice wasn't so much a British thing, so much as a Hogwarts' thing, and even then you rarely ever found yourself in a position to buy the stuff...

Harry really didn't feel ready to explain about all that, and all the nuances and distinction between the Muggle and Wizarding communities of Britain, if only because it would likely skew how Dean viewed him. And that was definitely not something he was quite prepared for. Harry supposed it was similar to Dean's earlier hesitancy.

_I think if I tried to explain it right now, you might hate me._

Harry didn't think Dean would _hate_ him, but at the same time Harry really just wanted to make sure that Dean got to see the best of him, got attached to him as Harry before he had to deal with Harry Potter, Boy-Wizard-Wonder.

So yet again Harry found himself speaking in technicalities, "It's not so much sold in shops around here or anything like that. It's just something that I know you can have at my school."

"Weird," Dean said.

_That's __story of my life_.

Ж

It wasn't long before Dean actually started to feel sleepy, which was a particularly nice change from brain-dead tired. There was something indescribably soothing about the familiarity of this moment, as Dean exchanged whispered 'good nights' with Harry. Flicking off the light on his bedside, the room was flooded with darkness.

The rustling of sheets from the bed next to him, and the soft contented sigh that followed made Dean's chest ache.

_I can't ever lose you_, Dean thought with conviction as he strained his eyes in the dark to see the tousled head of hair sticking out from where Harry had completely wrapped himself in his blankets.

Stretching a hand out, Dean angled it so that from his line of view, it almost looked as though it was resting upon Harry's blanket encased shoulder.

Exhaling slowly, Dean let his hand fall. Tucking it under his pillow, he closed his eyes.

Ж

To Be Continued...

* * *

**Another Word from the Author:** Yes, yes, it's me again. Here to prod you to leave a review, if you would be so kind, especially if there was anything particular about this chapter that appealed to you... //smiles happily//.

So, until next chapter,

Kamikumai.


	9. Chapter IX

Word from the Author: First thing's first, Happy Valentine's Day, everyone. I've worked hard to present to you all today Chapter 9, as something of a Valentine's Day gift of sorts. 

That said, I know this chapter has taken _forever_ for me to get out, and I sincerely apologize for the massively long wait. For those of you who don't read my other fiction for SPN, I shall be quoting part of my author's note from 'Important Things in Life,' pretty much because I already spoke about my horrendous delay in posting then...

To the point, I have much trauma to share. Essentially, there was a bit of an accident, involving a certain very important harddrive, upon which many importants things were stored... Such as absolutely all of the fanfics that I have ever written, that I ever was in the process of writing, and even those that were simply in the stages of being plotted. It is for this very reason that I haven't posted any new chapters for HP&SP - as it was the fic which suffered the most from this, given that I lost about 15k words, not to mention all my various drafts for future chapters, characterizations and events.

What this meant was that anything I wished to continue with, I would more or less have to recreate from the abyss of my mind.

After much consideration, I decided that this was in fact the path that I would take. Of course at first I was seriously disheartened (to the point that I very nearly threw up when I first discovered that my external was, as Dean is wont to say, 'gone'...) by just how much effort I would have to put in to do so. BUT! The more I thought about how much effort I had already put into writing things such as this fic, Harry Potter and the Supernatural Phenomenon, the more determined I felt to continue writing, despite the setbacks (some evidently more major than others, such as the rewriting of both this chapter, and the next, from scratch).

However, in some ways, this means a clean slate for me to start musing from. As such, I hope that this (and I'm going to say 'new and improved'...) version will be up to my normal standard, and also to your liking.

All in all, I would just like to say thank you, for reading my humble efforts at creation and for continuing to do so even after all this time. And I send a special thank you out there to those of you who have stuck things out with me thus far, new as I may be. Thank you so much for your kind support.

And on that note...!

Disclaimer: As it stands in chapter 1.

Chapter 9

Ж

Lying awake, the night winds whistling wildly by, jolting the window panes in their frames, Harry tossed a little, trying to keep quiet. From the digital clock that blared glaring red numbers from the bedside table between them, Harry could see that he'd only managed an hour or two of fitful sleep before he'd woken up, gasping for breath. It didn't help that the dream that had haunted him wasn't anything like what he'd been forced to deal with previously.

In fact, it seemed as if Harry's brain was determined to torture him in a completely new and deliciously sordid fashion. So of course, he'd been dreaming of Dean, only to awaken just as he'd been nearing the edge, balancing on the precipice of relief.

In some ways, that was probably for the best. With Dean only a couple of feet away from him, Harry imagined he would likely have died from embarrassment, pure and simple, had he reached completion. And without his wand, there was no inconspicuous means by which he could have cleaned up after himself.

Really should have asked Dean to open that bloody trunk as soon as we got in, Harry sighed slightly to himself. _I really need to stop letting Dean distract me…_

"Can't sleep?" A somewhat disembodied voice wafted over from the neighbouring bed.

Harry almost jumped in surprise, would have in fact were it not incredibly hard to do so whilst lying down, not to mention that it would have made the cause of Harry's insomnia all too pronounced. He hadn't realized that Dean was awake.

Flushing, he began to wonder just how much Dean had witnessed. Harry hoped to Merlin that he hadn't _said_ anything either…

But if he had, surely Dean wouldn't have announced his presence at all. Surely he would have simply pretended not to have heard anything, if only to allow a sense of propriety to remain between them. Even if Dean hadn't heard anything, if he simply suspected the possible cause of Harry's fitful tossing and turning then surely he wouldn't have spoken up at all. But since he had… Harry was happy to assume that Dean was blissfully unaware of the explicit content that was currently churning through Harry's gutter-bound mind.

The slight concern that Harry thought he had heard in Dean's voice went a long way in assuring him of this fact. That Dean didn't know.

Just in case, for future reference, silencing spells, here we come.

"Yeah, apparently not," Harry murmured at last, trying his best to mute any sort of emotion from his voice.

Perhaps worse of all was that without his glasses on, Harry really couldn't determine just what kind of expression Dean was making at him. Harry thought about reaching for his glasses, the only problem with that being that, while Harry himself was substantially impaired as far as his sight was concerned, Dean had no such difficulties. In other words, Harry had to weigh up the risk of Dean seeing something in Harry's attempt to restore his vision by grabbing for his glasses, against letting Dean remain as a bit of a blur in the little light available.

With his Seeker reflexes, Harry was decided. He swiftly made a grab for his glasses, his arm nearly popping out of its socket as he struggled to keep the rest of himself still…

Breathing a sigh of relief, Harry slipped them on, and watched as the world regained its definition. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could now see the outline of Dean under his own covers. The window shade that hadn't been drawn allowed for rich moonlight to swathe over Dean's bed as a mystic array of grey-whites ever-moving through darkness.

"What's up?" Dean asked, and Harry heard the whispery sounds of Dean's duvet as he shuffled around, likely so that he would be able to more easily see Harry's face.

But as soon as the question was voiced, Harry almost choked in response to its completely innocent phrasing, even as he drew his knees up closer to his chest.

Turning his face away from Dean's watchful gaze, he stammered, "N-nothing!" His face heating once again, as a feeling of complete chagrin surged through him.

Dean sat up, now obviously concerned, and made as if he planned to come over and check for himself.

'_What's up,' my arse!_ Harry thought indignantly, before his eyes widened at the thought, and vague memories of his dream flashed through his mind. This time he did actually choke, possibly on his sudden near hysterical laughter.

It seemed as if the sound was making Dean hesitate.

Probably for the best, Harry thought on an escaping giggle-groan. "Sorry," he muttered, "I was just… thinking." 

Not the greatest excuse he'd ever come up with, but given the circumstances, not to mention the lack of oxygen reaching his brain, Harry figured it would have to do.

"Anything I could help with?" was the next thing that Dean asked, and as far as Harry could tell, he was entirely sincere about it too.

Harry's mind, however, was already in the gutter, and his mouth had already opened with a 'yeah, actually, I could use a hand…' on the tip of his tongue before he managed to snap his mouth closed, his teeth clicking at the force of the movement.

Harry grinded them a moment, before trying to formulate an answer appropriate to the context in which Dean's mind would have been working.

"Why me?" was all that he could manage.

Even though there wasn't quite enough light for him to see it clearly first hand, Harry could somehow imagine the puzzled look on Dean's face, though he couldn't quite place how he knew the precise way in which Dean's eyebrows crinkled towards each other or the way his lips quirked down for a second before his mouth would set in a smooth line.

Silence filled the room, so Harry tried to qualify his question.

"I just mean, why do you think… this _demon_, is after me?" Harry knew all too well why _Voldemort_ was after him, but what kind of explanation did Dean have for having come looking for him?

"Because you're strong," Dean informed him, pride and confidence colouring the words.

"Strong?" Harry repeated, bewildered.

"Is there an echo in here?" Dean joked.

"In here?" Harry smiled vaguely. "Maybe."

They lapsed once more into silence.

Harry, for his part though, was still contemplating this point. How could he be strong?

There was nothing special about him, beyond the ugly, cursed scar that marred his forehead, so really, nothing special at all. Even in terms of magic, Harry didn't think his amounted to much, because even if his potential reservoir was greater than that which belonged to most Witches and Wizards his age, he still couldn't adequately use it to his advantage and if anything that seemed more like weakness to Harry than strength.

All these thoughts about his flaws and failings were enough to cure Harry of his earlier problem. And somehow, he was able to uncurl from his assumed position of weakness. He found himself only capable of doing so when he let the strength he saw in Dean's regard in turn strengthen him.

Sitting upright now, he felt anger suddenly course through him. Anger at the Wizarding World into which he'd been thrust, no clue, no preparation, just, _here you go, Harry Potter, you're the one who has to save us. Or at least die trying._ There was anger at his fate, ordained by prophecy, his own choices once again ripped from his grasp, his own wishes and dreams worth nothing in the face of such an imperative.

Harry felt anger at his situation, he felt anger at Malfoy, for his perpetual torment, and simply because Malfoy was the one person who Harry generally allowed himself to feel anger towards. It was a little bit scary to find that he also felt anger at Hermione and Ron, and for what? Harry couldn't help but feel that his reasons were not only selfish but also worthy of contempt. And yet, this didn't stop him from feeling what he felt. He felt anger at them for the carefree nature of their lives; at the very least, they had family to rely on, a place to call home the whole year round. They were loved for themselves, unconditionally, unlike Harry who was, for the most part, loved only when he was able to fulfil his role as saviour, when he fit into the neat little package every assumed he belonged in.

Then there was the anger that Harry felt for himself, for his failures, how he was forever falling short of others' expectations, when he really did try, _he did_.

But worst of all was the anger he suddenly felt for Sirius… who had left him. Left him behind to deal with all this, left him without anyone to call family, or home.

Because home is where the heart is…

Harry felt his anger spike as his thoughts turned to Snape, for his part in the events of the previous year, and all the years before that; Snape, who mocked him, judged him, belittled him, when he himself had little room to point fingers, without making of himself a hypocrite. In this, Harry felt his anger to be, at least to some extent, justified.

Out of everyone, Severus Snape was in fact the one who should have been most able to understand what Harry himself was going through, what Harry had been through. They'd experienced many similar hardships and tragedies in their lives, but no. Snape didn't see these similarities. Or rather, he couldn't see them, not while he allowed himself to be blinded by petty hatred for things in the past, things that, in reality, had little to do with Harry himself.

Because Harry wasn't his father.

Yet no matter what Harry did, it seemed that nothing was likely to convince Snape of this fact.

In turn, Harry could also understand why Snape held onto his hatred. With the way Snape had been called to live his life, it was a wonder that he had managed to survive at all. Harry knew, when there was nothing left to live for, you had to hold onto anything you could. And for Snape, it was duty and honour and redemption, as well as a wealth of other darker emotions that seemed to make up everything that he was.

For Harry it had always been hope. That if he lived one day longer, things would change. That someone would come to take him away and tell him about his real family, that these people he lived with, his 'aunt', his 'uncle', his 'cousin', they weren't really related to him, which was why he didn't belong. Luckily for Harry, it had happened, things had changed. And that had been enough for him to keep on hoping.

See, the thing which Harry hated above all about Snape was not necessarily the way he had treated Harry. To some extent, Harry could also admit that in light of the fickleness of the Wizarding World, and the capriciousness of even those whom he wished to call his friends, Severus Snape was a solid existence, an unchanging rock of belligerence and hostility… and truthfulness.

Because Severus Snape was nothing if not truthful. Of course, being the Slytherin that he was, he was also a manipulator of truth, but that did nothing to diminish its value. And that, _that_ was what Harry hated most about Snape. The fact that he was somehow _always_ able to see Harry's shortcomings long before Harry ever realized they were even there. That and the fact that he would gleefully point them out, with harsh, deliberately biting honesty.

Harry also understood that Severus Snape had ventured deep into darkness, for quite some time, before returning to the light. But as it was, inevitable and inescapable, the darkness had left its stains. Was it any wonder that the world Severus Snape was privy to was forever awash in shades of grey? That the edges of each existence forever bled, one into the other, leaving behind a colourless subsistence that consisted of nothing but the barest bones of what it meant to be alive?

Harry's world had been similar, drab and dreary, a pathetically pale and pointless landscape that seemed to stretch unendingly before Harry's eyes. But then, a blinding streak of burning light had breached the horizon, painting Harry's world in vivid colour, appearing innocuously at Harry's window sill, leaving Harry dazed at the sudden brightness and energy of its being.

But no matter how bright that light, it didn't change the fact that inside, Harry was still dark and broken, filled with remorse and despair. Hope but the smallest of flames being smothered by ever encroaching shadow.

In some ways all the brightness did was show Harry his true self, clearer than ever before, and what he found himself seeing, he also found to be sorely lacking.

"Look at me," Harry demanded of Dean fiercely. With impetus, he thrust his arms out before him, his own gaze lowering to stare at the sight of his arms, thin and lanky-looking, as they stretched out into the distance between them.

"Look at me," he whispered it this time, shaking now, as he felt the fury start to leave him, draining out from every place of contact his body shared with the bed.

Fingers flexing even as they shook, Harry glanced up to look at Dean, his expression sad and resigned, "Where is this strength you speak of?"

As the words left him, Harry found himself unable to stop from clenching his eyes shut, trying to block out images upon images of failures and defeats, _Sirius falling, falling, falling, forever_ in his mind. Even closed, those images were burnt beneath his eyelids haunting him at every moment they were able to break free from the strangle-hold Harry tried to maintain over his emotions. And it was true; Harry couldn't find it within himself at all – there was no strength for him to draw on, no stored away courage that he could spend if ever a rainy day did come.

If anything, Harry reasoned, it was probably because, for him, it was always raining.

Most of the time he felt empty at best, and even more so since he'd lost Sirius. There was an ache inside him that couldn't be cured, a feeling of incompletion; it was at once both dull and sharp. But it hurt less when he was with Dean, and he couldn't help but wonder wistfully if it wasn't Dean who was the power that the Dark Lord knows not.

The touch startled him, lost as he had been in his own thoughts.

Surprised, Harry glanced up to find Dean leaning forward from where he sat, reaching across and closing the distance between them, one of his strong hands pressing gently against Harry's temple, in an almost caress.

The urge to lean into the touch was irresistible, so Harry let himself do so, his eyes fluttering close at the feeling of warmth that radiated from the oh so tactile sensation.

"It's here," Dean murmured softly to him, his voice as smooth as silk, "and here…"

With imperceptible speed, the hand moved, this time to brush against Harry's heart.

Harry inhaled sharply at the shocking touch, his eyes snapping open. The nipple, beneath Dean's softly stroking hand, surrounded by the smoothly worn fabric of Harry's shirt and the heat of Dean's skin, hardened instantaneously, even as his heart rate spiked, and raced for all its worth. Harry could feel his own pulse pounding harshly at his neck.

More, Harry's traitorous mind desperately cried. _Touch me… more._

Harry bit his tongue, to force himself to silence.

And in this, there is weakness too. The voice had returned, and with it the internal mockery that Harry only now recognized… as Snape's. It was a profound realization, that after all this time, Severus Snape, in all his glorious derision, now inhabited some part of Harry's psyche. 

Blinking, Harry began to gather his already startled wits, scattered even more so by that somewhat horrific epiphany that his mind sometimes sounded like _Snape_. Harry tried instead to focus upon Dean's face, also in an effort to divert his own attention from the terribly arousing feelings Dean's touch evoked in him.

With so little, he was already feeling so much. And craving still more…

What he found there, etched across Dean's expression, was a look of such intensity that it burned him, and even the colour of Dean's eyes seemed to have changed minutely, flickering from green to blue, as if they too were reflecting the intense heat of their exchange.

No one had ever looked at Harry that way before. It seemed to be all-encompassing; it was a look that threatened to consume all that he was and all that he would ever be.

"Strength of mind, strength of heart," Dean informed him passionately, "strength of spirit… Strength that cannot be taught."

And it seemed that Dean was completely unaware of the effect that he had upon Harry. Nevertheless, Harry was unspeakably grateful that he still had numerous layers of bedding wrapped about him, enough that those effects weren't glaringly obvious. Not that Dean was looking anywhere other than his face, directly into his eyes in fact.

Dean spoke with conviction, and Harry thought that it was the kind of conviction that could lead a people to victory, that could galvanize a floundering force, that could empower even those who had already given up to stand up and make a stand.

Harry wished that he too could possess such conviction.

With a start, he realized what it was that Dean's conviction was based upon. That it was Dean's firm belief in Harry that allowed him this certainty. Harry could hear it now in his voice, a deep current that flowed, swift and strong, just beneath the surface.

"The strength I'm talking about is the foundation for all that you'll become," the hand moved again, this time returning to ruffle affectionately through Harry's hair. "You remember you told me you didn't think you were smart? That you weren't any good at school work?"

Harry hummed his agreement, having already learnt that moving his head in this kind of situation could lose him the feel of Dean's hand.

"You're plenty smart," and there was that conviction once more, "I can see it in your eyes, there's courage too, and talent," Dean paused as if really considering it, and his words carefully, as he stared directly into Harry's eyes, "but you feel as though you've got something to prove. Only you don't. You don't have to prove anything to anyone. All you have to do is be yourself, and I'd say that given the right incentives you'd be great. It's all there; all you need to do is learn to build on what you've got. The same goes for this," and here the hand burned a trail down the back of Harry's head, down his neck, to settle on his shoulder.

"The body can be trained. With determination, and strength of will, and I can see you've got plenty of both," Harry had to forcibly stop himself from shivering as a thumb smoothed soothingly along his collarbone.

Harry didn't even think Dean noticed he was doing that.

"And I'm going to train you."

Harry felt his eyes widen in surprise.

"You will?" He breathed excitedly.

"There's so much for you to learn, so much I know you can," Dean smiled. "If you're willing."

Harry nodded happily. This was more than most had ever offered, even Dumbledore, whose idea of training had been to give Snape the opportunity to torment him further.

Then Dean was letting go. "You ok, now?" He asked, concern filtering through momentarily as he leaned back, moving further away, out of Harry's reach.

Resting against the headboard of his bed, Dean titled his gaze back to Harry. He smiled his smile full of sadness, his eyes asking for Harry's word that he was alright, far more poignantly than his voice had.

Harry was happy to notice however that despite the echoes of sadness that lingered still, and no doubt would for some time to come, Dean's face looked serene, and far more relaxed than Harry could remember having seen it in a long time.

In a long time…? Harry frowned at the thought, before shaking his head to remove it. 

Realizing Dean might think he was saying he wasn't ok, Harry quickly responded with a sincere, "I am."

Thanks to you. Though this, Harry didn't think he could say aloud. Not yet, anyway. 

As Harry shuffled his way back under his covers, trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in, he found himself lying on his side, facing Dean. Harry watched the play of shadows cast by the silhouette of a gnarled tree just outside their window as they danced with the moonlight across Dean's face. Dean seemed to have sensed that Harry was waiting for something, as barely a moment later he spoke, his voice filled with warmth, "Don't worry. I'll watch over you… Sleep."

With that final assurance, Harry slipped off his glasses, placing them on the bedside table. Shifting once more, he found a cosy niche in his bedding.

Harry let his eyes fall close, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt as if he were not only safe, but cared for as well.

It was a wonderful feeling. 

Ж

Dean watched on as Harry's breathing gently evened out into that of sleep, thinking about what had woken him in the first place.

From the very first moment that Harry had shifted restlessly in his sleep, Dean's eyes had snapped open. Naturally Dean's first reaction to the situation had been to calmly and motionlessly scan the room to make sure there was no threat to which he needed to respond.

Once Dean was assured that there was no one, and nothing, but them in the room, he'd relaxed his grip on the knife under his pillow, which his hand had automatically gripped upon rousing.

The next thing he'd done was silently shift to look at Harry. As it turned out, he'd been having a bad dream. From what Dean could tell, Harry had appeared to be flushed and sweating, his brows furrowed, his mouth gasping.

Dean was amazed at how much fear could resemble ecstasy. He had quickly shaken off the thought. The possibility of his body reacting given the situation had definitely been something Dean had wanted to avoid at all costs, especially if Harry had woken up looking for comfort… of a completely platonic nature, of course.

At the very least, Dean took heart in the fact that the kind of nightmares that haunted Harry didn't seem to be the kind that had plagued Sammy. Not that Dean didn't feel terrible that Harry had nightmares at all… but still, he couldn't bear to think of Harry having to deal with the same kind of visions that his brother had been privy to, if only because Sammy, like himself, had been used to those kinds of things.

All their lives, the two of them had been put in positions that had required them to endure or adapt, but not only that; there was also the fact that Harry was so much younger than Sam. What kind of cruel fate would put something like the 'gift' Sammy had been forced to be the recipient of onto such young shoulders?

Still, if he could have, Dean would've gladly borne the burden, if only to have been able to take away the perpetually tired and haunted look that had seemed to fill Sammy's eyes, every moment that he was awake. But there had been no such escape. The sounds of his beloved baby brother waking up, screaming, crying, desperately reaching out for Dean, had been enough to break his heart, a thousand times over.

Because there'd been nothing substantial, nothing Dean, or anyone else – not that that thought had lessened the pain any – had really been able to do about it. It was just another thing in that long list of things that Dean had been unable to protect Sammy from.

The worst thing about it all though? It had to be the guilty pleasure Dean had derived from such moments, moments in which Sam had looked at him as if Dean was all that was keeping him there, keeping him alive, keeping him sane. In those moments all that existed in Sammy's eyes was Dean. And Dean loathed, as much as he loved, what he felt in those moments. It pained him greatly, unspeakably even, that his kind, gentle, caring brother had had to endure such hell, and further that he experienced it within his own mind.

It was only in the aftermath of times such as those that all Dean could feel was disgust for himself, and the weaknesses that his desire wrought within him.

I was meant to be strong for him.

Regret. Dean's life was filled with it. But there was hope, too. Lying before him, this time in what appeared to be a deep, relaxed sleep.

Dean wished that there could have been times before the end when Sammy could have looked as peaceful, as young, as happy, as Harry did right now.

It's a real pity that wishes weren't horses, Dean smiled crookedly to himself remembering Harry's bemused reaction to Dean's claim that you really didn't need an army when you were in possession of the ultimate weapon for destroying evil, _'cos if they were, he definitely wouldn't have said no to a couple more Colts…_

Still smiling, Dean let his thoughts return to Harry's wakening. It had been almost too weird for words, what had occurred in that instance. It had almost been as if Dean had felt the moment when Harry returned to consciousness, not simply through sensory perception, as it was true that he had heard Harry's gasp as he startled awake from whatever he'd been seeing. It had been much more than that – a strange tingling sensation that had skated across the edges of his awareness, sort of like movement seen with your peripheral vision. It always made you turn your head and check.

And yet, even as Dean had watched as Harry had blinked sleepy confusion out of his eyes, a horrible sense of unreality had settled over him. As it would turn out, apparently seeing wasn't quite believing, at least not anymore. A compelling need had swiftly descended upon Dean with that thought. All of a sudden, simply seeing Harry return from the dream place in which he slumbered, seeing him return to Dean, and the world, hadn't been enough.

It just hadn't been enough to reassure Dean that Harry was real, that he was there, with him, and not just some incredibly vivid figment of Dean's overactive imagination.

Though, much applause to his imagination if it could create something as heartbreakingly beautiful as Dean found Harry. He looked so fragile, almost like a fallen angel, with his stunning dark hair that looked darker still as it curled and wisped about porcelain skin. And eyes the colour of greed, forever whispering to you that what you had would never be enough, that what you needed was _more_, always more. To fall deeper and deeper into those depths, to drown if you had to, if that was what it took to bring you closer to their core.

And it was true, the sight of Harry alone tugged at something deep inside him. But then again, he'd already known that that would happen.

As such, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, Dean had stupidly reached out to touch him.

The slight smile fell from Dean's face as he recalled this.

The simple touch had seemed to scare the wits out of Harry, which had been startling enough as it was for Dean. The next moment though, without any warning, the expression on Harry's face had changed, morphed. Harry had looked, for lack of anything else that could describe it… _hungry_.

Harry had looked at Dean as if he had been starving his entire life. And Dean supposed that in a way, he had been. He had leaned so easily into Dean's touch, likewise greedy for more.

Dean had felt his heart ache at the sight. For all that he and Sammy had been deprived of many things, they had never lacked for love. They had always been a family, even when Sammy fought with Dad, even at times when things were strained at best; they'd never stopped loving each other, unconditionally.

The way in which Harry had so sought Dean's affection, almost unconsciously, told Dean just how neglectful those _fucking bastards_ had been. The need to be loved stared out at him from those crystalline eyes, and it drew him in, called to him to give his love, to give his all to sate all the desires swirling in their midst.

The thought that even a stranger…

No, Dean amended, as he watched the peaceful rise and fall of Harry's chest as he breathed, _we're not strangers_. Dean believed it was as Harry had earlier said…_ We're connected._

Dean of course knew better; they weren't _just_ connected. They were parts of the same soul.

We belong, Dean thought with fervour. 

There was so much that Dean needed to teach Harry, and, at least from what Dean could tell, Harry seemed willing, eager even, to undertake whatever Dean thought was necessary to train him.

But as Missouri had said, tomorrow would come soon enough…

And with that thought, Dean lay down, and slept.

Ж

Harry awoke to the smell of coffee and sweetness. Slipping his glasses on, he launched himself upright as he noticed that Dean's bed was empty. Panicked, Harry looked around in the early morning light, only to find Dean standing at the foot of his bed looking amused.

Harry blushed. Before silently cursing his stupid face for being so incredibly stupid.

Dean simply raised an eyebrow before setting a tray down across Harry's lap.

"What's this?" Harry asked, startled by the gesture.

The eyebrow lifted higher. "Your breakfast," Dean replied, as if this was the most obvious answer in the world.

And perhaps for normal people it was, but to Harry…

Harry just stared at the food, which smelled absolutely heavenly, even as he felt his mouth begin to water. It definitely seemed as if he'd gone a bit too long without anything worth eating, only to be expected though seeing as he'd been at the Dursleys for as long as he had.

Harry quickly grabbed up the fork and knife, just about to cut himself a mouthful of pancakes smothered in cream and syrup, when he was struck with a sudden realization.

Dean had brought him breakfast in bed…

Harry had never had breakfast in bed before. Sure, he had snacked in his bed at Hogwarts, on all sorts of candy from Honeydukes and sure, he had similarly sequestered food away whilst at the Dursleys' so as to eat in the privacy of Dudley's spare bedroom, but never before had he been the beneficiary of an action such as this.

Harry looked at the warm and inviting spread before him, and then up at Dean, in awe.

"Thank you," Harry breathed, as he smiled more than he could ever remember smiling.

Dean just gave him this breathtakingly gorgeous crooked half smile in return, "It was my pleasure."

And as far as Harry could see, it did rather look it.

Filled with a simple joy, Harry returned to his food, eating it with relish, savouring each mouthful as fresh and wholesome flavour washed over his tastebuds. He couldn't remember the last time he'd enjoyed a meal so much. His mind flashed to the welcoming feast, his very first night at Hogwarts. Harry smiled even wider at the thought, as he reached for the tall glass of what looked like orange juice.

Turned out it was, freshly squeezed by the taste of it. Humming happily, Harry drank it down in between mouthfuls of pancakes.

Still chewing, and thoroughly enjoying his breakfast, Harry spared a glance to see what Dean was up to.

As far as Harry could see, Dean was seated at the large timber desk, sipping his coffee whilst tapping the pencil he held in his right hand against the table top. Harry presumed that he was contemplating what to write, or possibly draw. Harry couldn't tell for sure from where he sat.

As if sensing that he was being watched, Dean looked back over his shoulder to ask, "How is it?"

Harry quickly swallowed before happily replying, "Delicious!"

Dean chuckled, "Should I be worried about giving you so much sugar this early in the morning?"

Harry shook his head no, taking another mouthful, this time moaning in pleasure at the sweet, sticky taste of his pancakes. Harry opened his eyes to find Dean staring at him, or rather, at his mouth.

Feeling shy, quite suddenly, Harry ducked his head, focusing on using his last bit of pancake to scoop up as much syrup and cream as he could, before plopping it into his mouth.

"Did you want any more?" Dean asked, his tone curious.

"Hmm?" Harry questioned, before hastily adding, "Oh, no, that was plenty…"

"Harry," Dean sighed, which caused Harry to look up in surprise, wondering whether he'd done something wrong. He didn't think he had...

"You know that if you want more, all you have to do is ask, right? I'm not like _them_," Dean assured him.

Harry almost snorted at that. As if there was any room for comparison… Dean was wonderful, and caring, and kind, and gentle with him. Basically, Dean was everything the Dursleys were not, and he proved it all the time to Harry, through both word and action.

As he did now, continuing to say, "I won't deny you anything, within reason, especially not something as easy to provide you with as food."

Harry was touched, he always was by everything Dean did for him, when he really didn't have to, which was probably why Harry felt the need to reassure him that Dean was nothing like them, at all.

"Really, Dean. I… I guess you can tell, huh? That they…" Harry swallowed wondering why it was so hard to tell someone this. It's not like it really mattered, "…they didn't go out of their way to be nice to me, or to feed me really good things like this. But it's ok, really. Because I know you're nothing like them. I wouldn't have even considered following you if you were… And this," Harry gestured to indicate his strangely clean looking plate, "was really, really, good. The best I've ever had, actually. Thank you…"

Harry paused before sincerely whispering the rest of what he wanted to tell Dean, just so that he wouldn't worry, "It's just that… I think if I, if I ate anymore, I'd probably get sick. So, I don't think I should…" Harry smiled, and was surprised that it felt just the tiniest bit forced. At the same time, he wondered why it felt so hard to breathe...

The words shouldn't have been so hard to say, after all, he had long ago accepted things as they were, the Dursleys' cruel treatment of him, the years of neglect, the layers of scorn they filled their voices and gestures with when they _had to_ interact with him. Because he'd always had an escape. Magic had rescued him and reshaped him, given him purpose, even if in the end that purpose was going to end up killing him..

Why was it that it hurt so much, only now, to think about it?

Dean had stood up while Harry spoke. Moving in a way that showed how comfortable he was in his own skin, he walked over to Harry's bed and moved the tray off onto his own. Carefully he sat, and smiled, before doing what seemed to be something of a habit of his – affectionately ruffling his hand through Harry's hair, messier as it was than ever, what with Harry having just woken up.

"It's okay, Harry. If you're full, you're full. I'm not gonna force you to eat more than you can, or anything stupid like that. I just wanted to make sure you didn't feel as if you could only have what I give you and nothing more. I just wanted you to know you can always ask, for anything, food, help, whatever. And I'll do my best, okay?"

Harry nodded that he understood, his cheeks flushing this time in pleasure. Dean really was quite adorable, Harry realized, in his earnestness.

"From now on, don't even think about them!" Dean instructed Harry sternly, before grinning. "And better yet, I'll have you used to a nutritiously varied diet of junk before you know it."

Harry laughed softly, remembering Dean's obsession with those things called tacos. Harry supposed that fish _was _meant to be good for you…

"Thatta boy!" Dean proclaimed heartily, as he watched Harry continue to laugh quietly, before he stood to move back to the desk, to continue with whatever it was he'd been doing.

Harry got out of bed and went to follow. He really needed to brush his teeth for one, and both his tooth brush and tooth paste were in the bag he'd left on the table the night before.

Harry smiled, glad that he had done that, if only because now he had an excuse to go see what Dean doing.

Taking his things from his bag, Harry tried to sneak a covert peek at what Dean was writing. It looked like some sort of timetable, interestingly enough.

Dean obviously noticed what Harry was trying to do, but instead of berating him, not that Harry had really expected Dean to, all he did was slide the piece of paper over so that Harry could take a good look at it.

It was indeed a timetable, though it looked to be only half filled out.

"What's it for?" Harry asked, as he noted a lot of terms he didn't really understand. Before realizing that Dean might've been writing in some sort of short hand. There were lots of abbreviations, and numbers beside things.

"It's a regime," Dean replied, and at the look Harry gave him, he elaborated with a nevertheless succinct, "for exercise."

"Wow," Harry breathed, realizing that the numbers must refer to repetitions. "You're going to be doing all this?"

Dean gave him a somewhat amused look, before answering, "No."

"What?" Harry said, startled by Dean's answer.

Dean's smile turned a bit wry, "Not me. You."

"WHAT!" Harry exclaimed. "_All_ that?"

Dean laughed at Harry's surprise, which for some reason, crazily, made Harry feel like pouting. Something that Harry could honestly say he really couldn't remember having ever done, especially after learning that it seemed to have an adverse effect on both his Aunt and Uncle.

Instead of giving in as he had seen them do with Dudley, it only ever made them more adamant in their refusal, in their refusal of Harry. More often than not, disgust would wash over their features, too. Only, back then, Harry hadn't understood quite what those expressions had meant – not until he had seen a similar expression bloom upon Aunt Petunia's face when she had discovered food that Dudley had decided he hadn't wanted to eat at the bottom of his school back – it had been putrid, decaying and utterly foul, so much so that Harry had almost retched himself when he'd smelt it.

The realization that _that_ was what they felt when they looked at him had been enough that he'd actually tasted bile in the back of his throat. Even Snape at his worst had never looked at him quite like that.

And it was as simple as that, why pouting was forbidden.

So while Harry certainly didn't think Dean would ever look at him like that, Harry didn't intend to ever find out.

Dean's laughter had already trickled to a stop, however, as he quietly announced, "My father used to make me do twice as much as that, when I was half your age."

Harry didn't know how to respond to this comment, because rather than sounding proud of this fact, as most people Harry knew would've been, bragging even, Dean sounded… upset. As if the memory was unsettling for some reason. Or perhaps, more so than the memory itself, it was recollections of his father that seemed to be distressing.

The first thing that Harry's mind turned to was the Dursleys. Harry thought that maybe Dean's father had been like them, expecting so much of you, but giving nothing in return for all the effort you put in, all the sweat and pain and tears, all of it done for naught. If anything, that would've explained Dean's desire to do things for Harry, like assure him that Dean at the very least cared about his well-being.

But thinking about it, it didn't quite sound right. The word father was filled with love and respect, admiration even. And Harry would never have associated any of those emotions with the Dursleys, or others like them.

Thinking on it further, Harry came to another conclusion as to why Dean would sound so distraught speaking of his father. The only thing was Harry didn't want to assume. But listening to the melodious notes that came together to form Dean's voice, each one of them, and looking at Dean, and all of the body language he was silently screaming at Harry with, all of it, everything, told Harry that Dean's father was dead.

It wasn't recent, however. Or perhaps it would be better to say it wasn't quite as fresh as the other thing that was plaguing Dean. Harry could tell, the pain that he heard when Dean spoke of his father was dull, the kind that came with age. It seemed that in this Dean had already reached the fifth stage, _acceptance_.

Unfortunately the same couldn't be said of whatever else it was that was burdening him. Harry figured Dean might be currently stuck in the very first stage, _denial_, either in that it had only just happened not too long ago, or that it had been something very, very bad, a loss so great that it had ripped a chunk of Dean off with it, if not some combination of those two factors.

Harry knew that he himself had already progressed into the _anger_ stage and had been teetering on the edge of _despair _for quite some time. Harry knew all about these kinds of things because Remus had sent him a book about dealing with loss.

Though some might think that a somewhat cold gift to give, in the light of someone losing a loved one, Harry cherished it. The soft leather cover worn from age, the stains and folded pages, all of it, Harry loved all of it, but most of all, the inscription,

'**_While we are mourning the loss of our friend, others are rejoicing to meet him behind the veil,' _**John Taylor, American Politician, Senator and Philosopher (1753-1824).

Rejoice in each moment you have, Harry. Be amazed by it as if it were your first, and cherish it as if it were your last.

And always remember to laugh, even if you're in tears, Harry. Even if you're in pain, and especially if you're in love… Laugh, and you'll forever remember those moments with fondness.

Because as someone once told me, 'Man is distinguished from all other creatures by the faculty of laughter.' That, Harry, is what being a Marauder meant to me; it was what kept me from believing myself to be a monster. And it was Sirius who first taught me to laugh again.

Love,

Moony

Harry had memorised the whole thing as soon as he had opened the gift after returning home from Platform 9¾. The letter attached explained that it was something someone who Remus had dearly loved as a child had given him not too long after he'd been bitten. It was what, Remus explained, had first helped him to cope with his ordeal. He went on to say that he hoped Harry would likewise find strength, and understanding, in its pages as Remus once had.

The book had been so acutely accurate Harry had openly wept as he made his way through it. He did smile however, at the same time, thinking of Remus, and all the love and support that he had extended to Harry.

Harry had also noted the dried tear stains that had caused some of the pages to weaken and ripple in places. Brushing his hand over those imperfections had brought him great comfort, somehow making him feel much closer to 'Moony,' as if Remus had been right there sharing his own pain with Harry.

How did that proverb go? Harry wondered to himself. _Ah, that's right… Joy shared is joy doubled, grief shared is grief halved._

Harry just wished that Dean would share his grief with him, because Harry knew it would draw them closer. But then again, perhaps it was too soon to expect so much from one another. After all, it wasn't as if Harry didn't trust Dean and that's why he himself hadn't shared anything as deep and painful as how he had lost Sirius. No, nothing like that, it was simply the fact that Harry didn't feel as though he should burden Dean with his own woes, not after everything that Dean had evidently been through himself, and especially since he'd already done _so much _for him.

Maybe once Dean was more comfortable with him…

Harry shook himself out of his thoughts, to concentrate on reality again. He realized with not a little shock that he had been standing there staring blankly at the partially tabled regime.

Dean however seemed just as lost in memories as Harry himself had been. Harry remained silent and watched as they flashed across Dean's face, obviously some better and some worse. The emotion on Dean's face in that moment seemed to flicker endlessly, never still, forever in motion. It was as if Dean had left himself wide open to Harry's curious perusal.

Just as what seemed to be a particularly dark recollection reverberated across Dean's countenance, Harry decided now might be a good time to distract Dean from his thoughts, so in a firm but tender voice, Harry murmured Dean's name to him, going as far as to reach out and place his hand lightly against Dean's shoulder, barely touching him except with his fingertips.

"Dean," Harry called again, his fingers tightening slightly against solid muscle as Dean startled from his thoughts to look up and into Harry's eyes.

"I can't imagine what you're capable of now, then," Harry praised, letting his honest wonder for him seep into his voice. Though, in all honesty, Harry could kind of imagine, all he had to think about was how Dean had battled and fought and _won_ against so many dark things, alone and with no magic to help him…

Dean really was amazing.

Dean continued to stare into Harry's eyes, long enough that Harry wondered if he shouldn't remove his hold on Dean's shoulder. As he went to do so, though, Dean's own hand shot out, fast enough to rival even the Wizarding World's best Seekers, and captured Harry's own.

Dean smiled as he squeezed Harry's hand in his for a moment, the shadows receding from his eyes as they crinkled in what looked to Harry like… gratitude.

Harry wondered what Dean had to be grateful for, even as he hesitantly squeezed back.

Pleased, Dean's smile grew, even though he let go of Harry's hand, reaching instead for his coffee.

Harry felt himself smile in response as he watched as Dean appeared to try to hide his smile behind the bright and cheerful red mug he held. For some reason unknown, this made Harry laugh, which in turn caused Dean to mock-frown at him, before actually taking a sip of his coffee.

"I guess," Dean began warmly, "you'll just have to wait and find out."

"I'll definitely be looking forward to it," Harry retorted, feeling incredibly relaxed now even though he knew he was bound to end up over-thinking things later, once he was alone. But for now, Harry was content to bask in this moment of companionable banter.

Harry watched as Dean's expression started to turn serious. Not necessarily a bad sort of serious, just an intense one, which Harry thought might be a bit worrying, if only because an intensely focused Dean, much like the one that was in this moment sitting right in front of him, was a seriously attractive Dean.

I knew it was too good to last, Harry thought ruefully to himself, thinking of the complete lack of tension just seconds before. 

"Listen to me, Harry," Dean instructed him, leaning forward, towards Harry as he said this, as if proximity would help Harry's concentration.

True, it let Harry fixate solely on Dean, but as for whether or not this was to his concentration's benefit was another matter entirely.

"This isn't going to be easy, what I'll ask and expect of you."

"I know, Dean," Harry hastened to assure him.

"Do you, Harry?" Dean asked, his gaze gradually increasing in intensity til it reached a slow burn. "Because Harry…" Dean started to speak, so close now that with the barest movement they could have kissed, so close that Harry had felt his name upon his own lips, Dean's warm breath whispering against them.

Harry heard his breathing hitch minutely, before he somehow managed to ask in a semi-normal voice, "Yes, Dean?"

"I'm gonna make you sweat," Dean purred. That's honestly what it sounded like to Harry, a deep, pleasurable rumble, not nearly as smooth as Dean's voice normally was, but all sort of rough and… _dirty_.

"I won't hold back, you hear?" Dean was continuing, "I'm gonna work you hard, until you feel as if all your breath has been sucked out of you, until you feel as if you can't take it anymore, then we'll slow down, and build it back up, again and again and again. As many times as it takes. And as we do, your stamina will improve. Until it does though, just so you know, Harry, I'll be pushing you, driving you to take more, and more of it, even if you don't think you can. And no matter how much you protest, we're not going to stop."

Harry almost whimpered at the images now racing through his head, in accompaniment to _those words_, in _Dean's voice._

"But you shouldn't worry," Dean smirked. "I'm experienced. I'll make sure you're ready. I don't want to ever see you hurt, which is why I'll prepare you, I'll train you to take anything I throw at you. And then some. But when we first start? You'll feel your muscles burn, and everything will ache for days, especially if you've never done anything like this before. You'll get used to it though, so long as we keep it up, and sooner or later you'll ask yourself how you ever went without."

Dean smiled massively now, and breathed a sigh of relief, perhaps at the fact that he had managed to get that all out of his system in one go, before stretching. Stretching in a deliciously languid fashion that caused his t-shirt to inch higher and higher, baring an alluring sliver of stomach, as Dean exclaimed, "_God, _I love training."

Harry could almost feel himself gaping, struggling to take in breath just as Dean had said he would. Of course, in this moment, it was for a completely different reason. For starters, that was one of the most impassioned speeches Dean had given him yet, and he had given Harry some good ones.

Harry felt himself start to turn bright red as he thought that. He was surprised he hadn't started blushing midway through. Perhaps he'd been in shock at just how full of sexual entendre even the most ingenuous things Dean said were. And yet, somehow, any such 'shock' hadn't prevented other parts of him from reacting.

Harry couldn't believe he was hard,_ at a time like this_. When Dean had just been innocently explaining, and trying to encourage and reassure Harry about the training, informing him of his expectations and the like.

Clenching his tooth brush, tooth paste and face towel tightly in his hand, Harry turned suddenly, desperate to escape and obtain some relief. _He'd never been this hard in his entire life!_

"I need to brush my teeth and take a shower," Harry said smartly as he speedily made his way over to the adjoining bathroom.

"Harry!"

Harry paused as he was reaching for the door handle, refusing to turn around in his determination to hide his complete and utter state of arousal. Harry thought that his pupils might even be dilated… What he decided to do instead was to simply, casually, look over his shoulder at Dean.

Just, be cool.

Dean stared for a moment before slowly saying, "Take care of your teeth, but are you sure you want to take a shower? I mean," Dean just frowned slightly now, "you're just going to end up sweaty again."

"I'm sure!" Harry squeaked, before yanking the door open, and swiftly shutting it behind him.

Sagging against the solid wood at his back, Harry glared down at his quivering knees.

It had been neither a speech impediment nor a complete lack of co-ordination, thank Merlin, but still, it was awfully close.

Ж

To Be Continued...

* * *

**Another Word from the Author:** Again I just wanted to say thank you to all those people who dropped me a line, I suppose to make sure that I wasn't dead... and who encouraged me to keep going when I most needed it...!

I hope to hear from you all again, especially if you have thoughts or comments regarding this chapter in particular, as it is something of a worry to me.

Til then,

Kamikumai.


	10. Chapter X

**Word from the Author: **Uwah. Ohmygod, I suck! Real life has been a hard mistress, and I really should've gotten this posted earlier but... and... yeah... so... Here it is? Thank you everyone for enduring with me this far, and for your patience and unending support! Let it be known that, no matter how much time passes between chapters, this fic, as well as everyone who reads it, has not been forgotten!

So, shall we?

**Disclaimer: **As it stands in chapter 1.

**Chapter 10**

Ж

Breathing deeply, trying to calm himself, Harry tried to repress the shiver that suddenly took him. Forcing himself to think of something else, he lifted his gaze away from his still quivering knees, to look at the bathroom instead.

Blinking, he stared at the place, which he hadn't bothered to take a look at the night before. Like the rest of the room, it was tastefully designed and impeccably tidy. The sight of big white fluffy towels was greatly appealing, and Harry wobbled his way over to put his things atop the bathroom cabinet, before sinking one hand into the cloud-like softness. Staring at the towels, Harry groaned.

He'd completely forgotten to take _clothes_ with him in his haste to escape.

With a shaky breath, Harry released his hold on the towel, to brace himself against the basin's edge. His reflection gazed steadily back at him, colour high on its pale cheeks, eyes overly bright, mouth slightly parted.

Licking his lips, Harry glanced down. _No change._

He was still so damn hard, even after not thinking about anything even remotely sexual for some time. He'd been aroused before, but he'd never… _actively_ touched himself. For the most part, it had seemed like far too much effort. Most of the time, it didn't last. As soon as he didn't give it any attention, it went away.

So, of course, now would have to be the exception to the rule.

Generally, Harry could honestly say that he'd never been particularly aware of his body – it simply was, it served its purpose, and so long as he wasn't hurt, there was no need to spare it a thought. That had changed the first time he'd ever ridden a broom. The exhilaration, the speed, the subtle nuances that a twitch of a muscle could bring to one's control all served to heighten his awareness of himself. He'd felt so _alive_. And it had been the same every time thereafter.

Harry couldn't help but wonder if it would be the same now. Every part of him felt overly sensitized, taut and ready to be touched. And so, touch he did.

Filled with curiosity, Harry let go of the sink, and let his fingers trail over the exposed skin of his arms. He let his fingertips familiarize themselves with the feel of his own skin, something he'd never thought to do before now, not for the simple sake of it. A frisson of anticipation ran down his spine as he moved his hands to grip the edge of his t-shirt. Trembling, he took it off and let it fall to his feet.

Watching his own reactions in the mirror, he ran his fingers along his shoulders, letting a thumb brush against his collarbone, allowing himself to remember the heat of Dean doing the same in the dark of night.

The thought of Dean made Harry's breath catch, and his eyes were drawn to his nipples, tightening, exposed now as they were to the cool air. Closing his eyes, Harry brushed each with a fingertip, imagining Dean's fingers as his own.

He ached.

Rolling them between fingers, pinching them, stroking them lightly and then changing the pace, Harry found that he had no real preference. It was all _so _good.

With a start, Harry realized he was squirming, shifting as he stood, instinctively trying to find the needed friction to satisfy his arousal. A moan almost escaped as a particular twitch stretched the material of his pajama pants taut along his length.

Stopping himself, Harry glanced about nervously. He was meant to be having a shower. Quickly, he moved to turn on the water, pleased with the realization that it would help cover any embarrassing sounds he might, or rather he was likely to, make.

Decisively, Harry grabbed one of the towels and laid it on the floor, a little away from the shower, before tentatively stripping and kneeling on it.

It was weird to see himself like this, Harry thought as he took in the sight of his own hard… _cock_. Mentally, Harry almost choked on the word, and felt his own face flush further.

Carefully, he let one hand fall to rest against himself, gently, barely touching at all. It was surprisingly hot and… smooth.

Blinking, Harry titled his head and amended the thought. Apparently, _he_ was surprisingly hot and smooth.

Harry grinned, before wrapping his right hand around his length.

And okay, wow. Pressure was nice. _Really_ nice. Eyelids fluttering, Harry stroked. First up, and then slowly down.

And _wow_.

Panting slightly, Harry shifted awkwardly to lie flat on his back. On the next up stroke, he gently squeezed as he reached the tip, and gasped as a shock of pleasure burst through him.

Back arching he continued, just as he had done with his nipples, _experimenting_.

Scant seconds later, he already felt on edge. Breathing heavily, Harry forced himself to relax, easing his grip, before gradually letting go, looking to simply catch his breath for a moment.

Propping himself up on one elbow, Harry gazed down at himself once more, tilting his head left, then right, as he peered at his erection. He poked it gently, and had to quickly muffle a giggle as it bobbed enthusiastically in reaction to his touch.

Harry frowned thoughtfully, as he wondered what exactly he was meant to jerk off to. Because that's what guys did, as far as Harry knew. They didn't touch themselves to watch themselves harden, tremble, twitch beneath their own hands, their own fingers. Masturbation served a purpose, relief through the exploit of fantasy. Harry knew from locker room talk, as well as from having shared a dorm room with four other boys for the last five years, the sort of things that were considered appropriate. Or at least that one talked of when in the presence of others. Breasts, tits, pussy, clits, slender waists, long smooth legs, soft, soft skin, firm, rounded asses, elegant, dainty hands, among some of the most extolled traits of the fairer sex.

The main problem with all that though was the fact that there was only one thing Harry wanted to think about. And that was Dean. Or, perhaps, it would be more precise to say, that he didn't want to think about. He wasn't exactly sure. Half of him was protesting the thought, that he would in some way be besmirching Dean's image, that Harry would be _using_ him if he did so. The other half of him, the _lower_ half of him, thought this was a particularly brilliant idea on Harry's behalf, and was quite happily gunning for him to continue.

It was a pity for the decent half of him that that side's blood flow, along with its much needed supply of oxygen, were already heading south, tipping the scale in the other half's favour.

The only question was, seeing as he was apparently going ahead with this craziness, what kind of fantasy did Dean evoke within him?

The first thing that came to his mind was black, satin boxers. Harry blinked at the thought. Licking his lips, he lay back down, taking himself back in hand as he did so, already conjuring a fantasy to go with this new experience.

It was odd, but it wasn't the thought of Dean in black satin boxers that was suddenly getting Harry hot, but the thought of him stealing a pair from Dean, and maybe, _oh_, getting caught?

Harry closed his eyes shut tight as he pictured an intensely focused look fix itself upon Dean's face, as he imagined Dean's strong, smooth gait as he stalked over to where Harry stood, surprised at Dean's sudden appearance when he wasn't even really dressed, what with his clothes laid out beside him on his bed.

Harry gasped as he brushed a free hand over his chest, seeing, behind closed eyes, Dean do the same, but with intent – pushing gently but purposefully until Harry's knees buckled and he sprawled upon his bed, his hard erection tenting the black satin of _Dean_'s boxers. Dean pinned him then, simply but effectively, doing little more than straddling Harry's prone form, coming to rest easily atop Harry's thighs, staring down at him with a fierce, possessive expression that screamed, without a doubt, _mine_. And then Dean touched, fingers dancing teasingly over Harry's chest, soothingly stroking down Harry's flanks, before curving possessively over Harry's hips.

Harry allowed his hands to mimic the path, simulating as best as he could what he imagined it would feel like. He was sure it wouldn't compare.

Exhaling on a shuddering breath, Harry moved one of his hands away from where he had them pressed against the naked skin of his hip, letting it hover just above his length, close enough that he could feel the radiating heat of his own erection. Still he held it there, anticipating where his fantasy was about to lead him.

Dean was leaning closer now, his hot breath wafting against Harry's ear, as he huskily murmured, _I hadn't realized these belonged to you_, as he tightened his grip on the silky material, pulling it taut.

Harry rubbed his hand firmly against himself, feeling his eyelids flutter, as he imagined himself hissing his reply around a sharp moan.

_No, _Harry imagined himself telling Dean. _They belong to _you.

Harry opened his eyes in surprise as he realized just how true the underlying sentiment, the implication, was.

_I belong to you,_ Harry thought in awe, nearly overwhelmed by the feeling of _rightness_ those words evoked.

Suddenly impatient, desperate almost to find completion, Harry wrapped his fingers around himself and pumped, his mind screaming, _deandeandeandeandeandeandeandean_, as he increased the pace of his strokes, a little clumsy and inept but also gloriously slick and warm and _wonderful_.

He was so hard now he could feel each beat of his heart throb beneath his fingertips. With his free hand he glided further down, until he reached his balls, taking them gently in hand, before rolling them.

Harry squeaked as his body bucked at the sensation, causing him to tighten his hold on his cock, and then there was _whiteburningheatpleasurereleaseoh__god__soooooogood_.

Harry wasn't sure how much time had passed, _seconds_, _minutes_, before he realized he was staring at the ceiling, blissfully zoning thanks to his very first self-induced orgasm.

He totally understood why guys would bother to do this. It was bloody _awesome_.

It was a moment before any thought other than that simple realization came to mind, such as getting up off the floor, and maybe taking that shower.

Harry wrinkled his nose as he noticed the white goo oozing to his sides from its puddle upon his chest and stomach. Frowning, he stuck a finger in it, before swooshing it about a bit. It was a weird consistency, and freakishly enough reminded Harry of this one potion Snape had made them brew. Harry shuddered at the thought.

Normally his only contact with this stuff came in the form of sticky sheets, or pajama bottoms, so it was mildly interesting to see an actual amount laid out before him.

At the very least, he knew the mechanics behind a blow job, he just couldn't imagine wanting to have the stuff in his mouth. Eyeing the slight sheen of a couple of his fingers, he raised his hand to sniff them. It didn't particularly smell like anything, but Harry wasn't sure he was game, yet anyway, to try tasting it.

Sighing, Harry shifted to stand. His first attempt to do so, however, was met with little actual movement. He felt completely wrung-out, and kind of boneless.

Harry blinked in surprise. Okay, so maybe not _entirely_ boneless.

He was still partially hard, despite having just come, and quite nicely if he did say so himself. Ignoring it, as was the usual scheme of things, Harry lethargically rolled onto his side before easing up, using the bathtub's edge as leverage.

Shakily, Harry stumbled into the shower, quickly adjusting the water temperature back from the frigidity it had reached when left to its own devices.

Stepping under the hot spray, the first thing Harry did was wash his front clean. Reaching for the shampoo, he was surprised to realize that he'd forgotten to take his glasses off, which were now both misting over and spotted with water. Sighing, he left them on. It's not like he could see anything without them on anyway.

Feeling the heat slowly seep in, Harry sighed, this time in contentment. Even though he was already half-hard _again_, Harry felt too like liquid to bother doing anything more taxing than soaping himself up and letting the water wash everything off as he simply stood there, making the effort to scrub only when it was absolutely called for.

Harry stepped out from the shower feeling revitalized. Drying himself off with a highly absorbent, fluffy, white towel, his hair already wrapped up in one, Harry also managed to brush his teeth whilst doing so. Humming tunelessly to himself as he did so, he finally spat and rinsed, before wiping his face dry.

Figuring that his hair was dry enough, Harry hung that towel back up on the rack, before hesitantly heading to the door that was the only thing separating him and Dean, barring a few layers of clothing and a measly towel. Tucking his towel more firmly around his waist, Harry inhaled a calming breath, before opening the door and stepping out.

_Just don't look at him, and you'll be fine._ Harry told himself gamely. After all, out of sight, out of mind… right?

Ж

Dean turned, hearing the bathroom door open, only to stop and stare, his eyes trailing over pale skin, delicate rivulets of water, and Harry in nothing but a low-riding towel hitched about his hips. This was certainly something Dean had had to endure before. Admittedly, Harry wasn't as built, as sculpted as Sam had been in moments like these, but there was something so temptingly fresh and pure and innocent looking about him, Dean could actually feel his mouth begin to water.

Turns out, Dean hadn't changed all that much, mindless chatter being his first and foremost reaction to such occurrences as near-naked-fantasies-come-to-life, especially when acting upon said fantasies was definitely not allowed, for any number of reasons. This too was no different. Perhaps that's why the first thing that came blurting out of his mouth was, inadvertently, "What on earth took you so long?"

_Stupid, stupid question_.

Harry seemed to think so too as his eyes abruptly snapped up to meet Dean's from where he'd been previously gazing anywhere _but_ at Dean. Almost instantly, he looked away, as if fascinated by the pattern of their bedspreads. And if that weren't indication enough of just what had gone down in there, the tell-tale blush that was smouldering across Harry's cheeks told a story of its own.

Dean watched on in fascination as Harry blushed, and his fingers twitched in the hold of his towel, causing it to balance even more precariously upon smooth, lickable hipbones. Kicking himself, he amended, "I mean, I wouldn't want to find out you'd been sucked down the drain."

And _damn it_, Dean could almost feel a blush coming up himself at his phrasing. As… that was quite possibly precisely how it'd happened, at least in part, a part that Dean wouldn't have minded sucking down himself, and _oh my god_, so should _not_ be going there!

Coughing, Dean decided he'd best shut up.

And turn around. Because hell, watching hungrily as Harry got dressed wouldn't help either of them. _No siree_.

It was incredibly hard to focus, however, when he could hear the sound of Harry's towel hitting the floor, the rustles of fabric brushing against naked skin.

…Naked skin? Oh, _boy_.

Dean licked his lips as he felt a drop of perspiration catch. And in spite of all his preventative measures, this morning, the night before, and just before that, he was _fucking_ hard again. Probably because he'd been sitting in front of his desk, his eyes closed, and his ears straining to hear something, anything, the entire time Harry's been in the shower – he was obsessed and pervy like that.

In fact, though Dean was a lot of things, dishonest was not one of them. So while he might pretend to the world, and even to Sammy, that he didn't realize things, or didn't feel stuff, he had never actually lied to himself about it, not purposefully. As a Hunter, he had to play the part, do things that were often morally questionable, but he never denied that fact. He didn't try to dress things up with pretty words and pleasant sounding euphemisms, because at the heart of it all, he wanted to be honest. And he wanted to do the right thing.

That was another thing about being a Hunter, when you did the right thing you knew for sure that it counted. And yet at the same time, sometimes that alone was also the only thing that kept you going. The life of a Hunter sure wasn't the easiest of paths to walk. But there were harder ones, ones not as worthwhile, not as meaningful. It was only these thoughts that had kept Dean on the straight and narrow for as long as it did. At every juncture where he'd almost veered off the path, it was that truth, and his utter conviction in it that had kept him going.

And so, even though everything he'd ever wanted in life, and never thought he could have, was so close, standing there, open and vulnerable, just a few steps from the path, Dean knew he couldn't do it. Because he wanted to do the right thing.

Because sometimes the right thing hurt like this; like the sensation of burning in his eyes, in his chest, and lower still. Self denial wasn't usually something that Dean practiced, but as in a lot of cases, this, what he'd felt for Sammy, and what he was definitely starting to feel here and now, was the one major exception to that rule. His sleeping around, playing about, as well as a lot of the other stuff he wasn't all that proud of having done in his lifetime, were all about making up for that single source of self denial that perhaps could never be balanced, no matter what Dean tried to replace it with. Nothing really eased the ache. Not for longer than mere seconds at best.

Still, there was a lot that Dean could deny himself for that one person. And there was nothing wrong with being honest with himself about it. Recognizing this fact in himself helped him to deal with it, to not simply give in to every demand of Sam's like he'd wanted to. Because that would've given the game away. Sublimation had been the key. And hopefully it would fit this lock, too. Luckily for Dean, the training would probably actually be sufficiently time-consuming and challenging. Enough so, that hopefully he'd not spend too much time thinking of things he couldn't have.

Better to think of all he could do, all he was going to be for Harry. And to let Harry dictate the dance, wherever it might lead.

And speaking of dancing, it was time they got this show on the road.

Ж

Training, as it turned out, was actually quite relaxing. So far, there hadn't been anything particularly taxing, just stretches and peculiar movements that seemed entirely foreign and made Harry feel ungainly and uncoordinated. Not that that was an unusual feeling for Harry, when he wasn't in the air, that is.

He'd heard of people whose sense of direction sucked on land but was exceptionally accurate in the sky, people in the Muggle world described as born pilots. Harry wondered if it wasn't something similar for him, after all, people described him as a born flyer.

They started with some warming up exercises, mainly stretches, most of which consisted of shapes and positions that Harry would have never even imagined contorting himself into otherwise. 'Incremental, gentle movements' was Dean's motto for this part, or so he informed Harry. The point, as he explained it, was not to _force_ his muscles to do more than they could, but to _coax_ them, with much consideration and loving attention.

At the look Harry had given him, Dean had simply grinned and said, "Look. Think of your body as an ally, as opposed to a simple extension of yourself. As an ally, you need to treat it with respect, in order to gain anything from it. It'll only ever willingly give equal to what which you're willing to offer," Dean shrugged slightly, as if to say 'that's just how it goes.'

"More often than not," he continued, "the body, as far as a fight goes, is a reluctant ally. I mean, it sure as hell doesn't want to get involved in something if it's just gonna end up getting beat into a bloody pulp. Self-preservation as an innate biological mechanism is a hell of a lot stronger than any self-preservation we're bound to actively _contemplate_ once the adrenalin's pumping. So, in order to balance this, to tilt things in your favour, you need to be generous and always make your offerings first. Time, effort, dedication. Care, devotion, relaxation. They're all necessary components to hone your body from a blunt tool into a fine weapon."

It sort of made sense when Dean put it like that. Because it was true, most of the time Harry simply expected his body to do as he commanded, never really thinking about what he was asking of it. To think of his body as a separate entity did in fact make Harry more aware of its condition. Maybe because being concerned about others, and putting them before himself, was such an ingrained part of the way Harry thought. Previously, he had always simply seen it like this: if he screwed up and got hurt, the consequences were his and his alone, and he would suffer them. If he screwed up and got someone _else_ hurt, that was another matter entirely.

By perceiving his body as one such 'someone else' Harry felt compelled to do more for it, which he supposed was precisely what Dean wanted.

Harry found it a little bit amazing that when Dean talked about training and Hunting, he seemed so… Harry wasn't sure the right word was confident, because Dean seemed confident most of the time anyway. Competent, maybe would be a better way to describe it, unlike he was when things shifted toward the emotional side of the spectrum, where Harry could sense just the tiniest bit of awkwardness underlying it all in spite of Dean's best efforts to reassure him and comfort him.

It was something of an enlightening process and Harry was more than happy to be able to better acquaint himself with this side of Dean.

They spent a fair bit of time simply going over and over the various movements Dean wanted Harry to incorporate into his repertoire to apparently increase the flexibility of his body, and to make it more limber and less prone to injury.

Harry thought he was getting the hang of it, until he caught Dean watching him intently on several occasions as he went through the last few of the basic stretches Dean had just shown him.

"What?" Harry finally asked, wondering if he was doing something wrong.

Dean's eyes strolled casually over his form, seeming to take every little detail into scrutiny. A moment or two passed before Dean replied with a question of his own.

"Do you play sports at school?"

"Uh," Harry said, even as he thought to himself, _to tell the truth, or not to tell the truth. To tell it all, or only in part. And if not at all, then what to say instead?_ Those were the questions currently running through Harry's head.

"Is that a no?" Dean guessed, one eyebrow raised in question.

"Sort of," Harry grimaced, wondering how one would go about explain Quidditch _without_ involving any of the necessary elements of magic.

"What do you mean, 'sort of'?" Dean said, his brow furrowing slightly as he seemed to consider this.

"I run a lot," Harry hedged. Of course, the running usually wasn't so much for sport, as it was to save his own hide. Still, incidental exercise should count for something, right?

"Yeah?" Dean asked, looking pleased.

"Yeah," Harry affirmed. "That and there're a lot of stairs at school? My dormitory's in the tower, so I spend a lot of time walking, you know?" Harry didn't really think Dean needed to know about all the summer exercise he got from doing all of his chores at the Dursleys. It's not like it had done anything other than leave him really just kind of skinny.

"The tower?" Dean appeared to be fixating on this point, even while his expression took on a sceptical hue. "You sleep in a tower?"

"Well," Harry winced slightly, "the boarding school I go to is sort of, well, a really old castle…?"

Dean's eyes bugged a little at this pronouncement. "And the Dursleys _pay_ for you to _live_ in a _castle_?"

"What?" Harry said, before huffing, "As if! My parents had me enrolled from birth, with everything set up so I wouldn't have to worry about anything," _which was close enough to the truth_, Harry thought, even as he continued to say, "and the only reason the Dursleys let me go was because they had no way to stop me." That part, at least, was entirely true.

"Good," Dean stated firmly, with a sharp nod as if to emphasis his approval. "I don't even want to think about where they would've stuck you if you hadn't already had somewhere to go."

Harry stayed silent. He didn't particularly want to think about what life would have been like if he hadn't even had _Hogwarts_ to go to. It was quite possible that a prolonged stay at St. Brutus' for Incurably Criminal Boys might've been about right, if it had come to that. Not that Harry was planning to mention _that_ little nugget of joy the Dursleys' had concocted to Dean either.

It was bad enough that the entire neighbourhood thought that Harry was crazy.

_And, of course, I get enough of that crap at school, too_, Harry thought to himself grimly.

"Right," Dean coughed slightly. "Let's get to it, then."

Brightening from the gloomy turn his thoughts had taken, Harry smiled shyly as he asked, "So, what am I supposed to do now?"

"From what I can tell you seem to have these warm ups down pat. Now we can move onto some of the more heavy duty stuff. The substance, if you like. Today, I'm starting you off light. But soon, you'll be doing daily runs and callisthenics, as well as quite a few of my favourite agility, strength and endurance exercises. Once you start showing a decent level of proficiency with these, we'll move onto hand-to-hand combat training, and the little bit of martial arts that I know. And after you get a handle on those things, I guess firearms and weapons training, it is."

Dean nodded, as if finished, before startling slightly as if he'd remembered something, which he apparently had, as he quickly added, "And on top of that, let's not forget our theory, basically strategizing and tactics. Though, we might try out some battle drills or scenario based simulations – I'll have to think about those for when we get to them, which won't be for a bit. But yeah, I'll also teach you everything I know about ghosts and stuff. No point in leaving anything out, huh?"

Harry nodded numbly. At least there wasn't an exam being attached to all this. He wasn't sure how he'd handle it if there was.

Taking a deep breath, Harry relaxed as he positioned himself as Dean had instructed, before picking up the weights held out to him and doing as Dean did. Today, as Dean had said, they were starting off light.

_Somehow_, Harry thought to himself, _I'm sure I'm going to be feeling this tomorrow, anyway. _

Ж

Dean was pleased when he called time out at just past midday. Harry was certainly no slouch. Dean could tell that he was a hard worker, and that despite his slender frame he was no stranger to physical activity. Not to the same extent as Sam or Dean had been, but still, there was plenty to work with.

One of the problems Harry seemed to have, however, was following instructions. Sometimes Dean found he would have to explain certain things in several different ways before one would finally stick. Once it did though, and Dean had tested this over the last few hours, Harry could remember and demonstrate what he'd been told almost word for word, as well as action for action. It was as if once his brain had grasped something, it was determined not to let go.

Dean would have to see how long this retention of his lasted. It would certainly be interesting to see.

Making sure that Harry was getting enough liquids, Dean told him to lie down and take a load of while he went and got lunch.

Downstairs was fairly empty at this time of day, the Inn didn't seem to get all that many visitors that loitered about in the front pub, not until night time anyway, when a lot of the locals came in, for a drink, or a bit of gambling, be it cards or be it pool, if not darts or the like. Seeing as most of them probably worked during these hours, it was only logical that they'd not be in, whereas any tourists staying at the Inn were likely to be out and doing tourist-y things during the daytime.

In the few days before Harry, Dean almost snorted aloud at the turn of phrase, _B.H. the time before our Saviour was found_, the solitude meant that Dean got to know the pub owners a little better than he might've been able to otherwise. They were a friendly couple who had apparently owned the Little Whinging Inn for four generations now, and they were more than happy to tell Dean about the local history and the like, especially after Dean had bartered with them that first night. They, too, were keen to hear tales from across the ocean, as they referred to Dean's stories.

Strolling up to the counter, Dean called out, "Hello? Anybody home?"

Margaret, Richard's wife, who ran the kitchen, came to meet him, exclaiming, "Dean! Good to see you, dear. What can I do for you today?"

Dean smiled fondly at the exuberant middle-aged woman, "I was just looking to get some lunch. What've you got?"

"Today's House Special: a steak, salad and soup combo," she winked, "nice and hearty, just like a young man needs!"

"Yeah?" Dean grinned in response to her antics, "I'll take two, then."

"Two?" She said, looking surprised, before adding, "I'll have you know, I'll not be making you go hungry with just the one serving, they're large enough to fill you up plenty! There's no need for you to eat _two_."

"Uh," Dean hesitated, "they're not _both_ for me."

Margaret shot him a knowing look, "The nice young lady stayed the night, did she?"

"What?" Dean spluttered, "You mean, _Harry?_"

Dean was pretty certain he had seen Margaret loitering in the dining area the night before, which meant she very well could have seen Harry head up with him. The only thing about that was that while Dean definitely thought Harry was pretty damn gorgeous, he certainly wouldn't have thought anyone could ever mistake him for a _girl_.

"Oh!" Margaret peered at Dean, before squinting to say, "I'm sorry, dear, I'm still waiting for my prescriptions to be adjusted; vision's a bit fuzzy at the moment, you see?"

Dean nodded his understanding. _Well, that explained it._

"Harry, you said?" Margaret smiled kindly. "From what I saw, you certainly make a nice couple."

Dean felt his face heat up. "It's not—we're not…"

"Oh, hush," Margaret instructed genteelly, "no need to be embarrassed. I've an eye for young love, I'll have you know."

Dean smiled ruefully. _She's at least half-right_, he supposed. "Yes, Margaret," he diligently agreed.

"Now, let me just get your order and they'll be done in a jiffy!"

Dean sat down to wait. He was sure Harry would be happy for the reprieve, especially as they had a hell of a lot to do once they finished eating and digesting.

_You'll be ready, whatever comes. I'll make sure of it._

Ж

By the time dinner arrived that first day, Harry felt as though his muscles had turned to goo. His body trembled as he moved, not enough to be seen, but nevertheless felt.

Dean simply smiled at him knowingly, before laughingly offering Harry the choice of Dean bringing something up for them, or them going down to the adjoining pub to eat.

It was a difficult decision for Harry, wanting to keep Dean to himself was one side of the argument, while the flip side, of course, was the freedom of actually being allowed to leave his room, to not be contained for the entire holidays as he would've been were he still at the Dursleys'. In the end, the latter won out, after all, Dean would be by his side down there anyway.

They headed out into the main corridor, side by side, Dean's hand a burning presence at Harry's back, there at the ready to steady him if need be. Little did Dean know, Harry supposed, but if anything, it made the trembling worse.

Smiling wryly at himself, he hobbled his way down the steps into the foyer of the inn, Dean alternatively teasing and cajoling him each step of the way.

Passing the reception desk, Dean cheerfully greeted the guy manning it, _Richard_ apparently, who heartily replied with a booming, "And a good evening to you too, mi'lad!"

Harry did little more than nod in acknowledgement, feeling too worn, and too distracted by that damn hand, to do anything else.

Breaking left they moved into what appeared to be the dining area. It was rustically furnished, like the rest of the inn, in rich, vibrant colours, and solid timbers. The place wasn't overly crowded, but from what Harry could tell there was much laughter and half-shouted cheering going on.

"Come on then," Dean said, propelling Harry forward from where he'd paused at the threshold. "I'll introduce you to the locals."

Dean said this last bit as if he found it amusing that he, the American, would be doing so, especially seeing as this was the town in which Harry had grown up. Harry could see how it was, sort of. And yet, at the same time, knowing why he'd never had the opportunity to get to know the people of what was meant to be his hometown, tinged Harry's amusement with the slightest streak of melancholy.

Drawing to a stop at the table, Dean grinned widely at the men sitting there. Most of them grinned back, some of them calling for Dean to spare them tonight.

Harry's eyebrows rose at that comment. Looking at them, he realized they must have been talking about playing cards, after all, that's what they were doing.

"Don't worry," Dean said, his smile widening further, "you're safe from me tonight. We're just here for a nice, hot meal, and that's it."

"We?" One of the louder men asked, his bushy eyebrows quirked curiously as he peered intently around Dean's solid form.

Harry, wanting to be polite, quickly shuffled slightly to the side so that he could be properly seen.

"And who's this?" Another of the men demanded, a cigarette hanging precariously from his thin lips.

Harry glanced away from the man, looking to Dean, trying to gauge what he would say. It was hard to see his expression from this angle though.

The surprisingly nonchalant tone came as a surprise, but not nearly as great as the one evoked by Dean's words, which seemed to echo into one of the almost soundless lulls in the room.

"This is my brother."

Harry froze.

Ж

To Be Continued...

* * *

**Another Word from the Author:** Right then. So. Heh. Kind of, uh, cliff-like... /apologizes profusely/ ...but, you know, good things come to those who wait? ...Right?

Anyhow, that said, please do let me know what you thought, yeah? I always look forward to hearing responses from you guys. (I would describe it as a nice buzz, but... that sounds a little addict-like, doesn't it...?) XD

So, until the next chapter...!

Kamikumai.


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